


Falling

by Kithri, Tamoline



Series: Intersecting Trajectories [3]
Category: Criminal Minds, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Tamoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily has her world set up just the way she wants it. Until she managed to meet an attractive woman in a place that she really wasn't expecting. Now the boundaries of her different worlds are changing and overlapping, and she's left falling.</p><p>Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/207659/chapters/309880">Faces</a>, covering the events from Emily's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You make my world tilt

I jump a little, startled by my cellphone ringing. Being at work, the sound is alien; out of context. This isn't any of the ring tones I have assigned to my colleagues. And no one else ever rings me at work.

Irrationally, I can't help feeling that this is not good.

I head out into the corridor calmly. This is nothing. Probably just a wrong number or telemarketer. Just one of life's little oddities. Quick glance at the number: local, but not one I recognise. A mystery, but one easily solved.

"Emily Prentiss speaking."

"Good morning, Ms Prentiss. This is Ms Donaldson at Washington Hospital Center. Do you know an Emma Winthrop?"

My world trembles. Oh god.

I am still calm. I am. I had seen her just this morning. We had an argument, but nothing could have happened since then. Please. "I know her, yes."

"I'm afraid there's been an incident."

The world briefly tilts out of alignment, and I find myself propped by one hand against a wall. "What... kind of incident?"

There's no way that she should be able to have this kind of effect on me. It's been nowhere near long enough.

And we're not in a relationship. We've already established that.

I force myself to listen, to focus on the words coming out of the telephone.

An attack; a blow to the head. An ambulance called by a passerby; an anonymous good samaritan. (It happened on the street? A mugging? Not enough data, states the rational observer.) Hospital. Concussion. Stitches. In and out of consciousness. But no skull fracture. No internal bleeding. No brain damage. she's going to be alright.

My world suddenly rights itself again.

She's going to be alright.

"She keeps on asking for an Emily. You were the only one in her phone. If you can, it might help if you could come down here."

She's asking for me? In spite of everything, some small part of me feels happy at the news.

"I'll see what I can do. Thank you very much."

I slip my phone back into my pocket as gravity shifts again, leading me inexorably towards Hotch's office. Before I reach his door, I start sorting my unruly emotions and thoughts into boxes appropriate for here, and appropriate for elsewhere. Everything to do with Emma doesn't belong here. I am only partially successful before I arrive at the door.

"I need the rest of the day off." I am a little more abrupt than usual, barely even waiting until the door closes behind me before blurting out my request. Which, come to think about it, is more like a demand. "Please," I add.

Some small part of me notes that this is going to cost me in the Game. It's probably going to cost me more before it's over, but that's a problem for another time.

Hotch raises his eyebrows a little; surprise and concern in one minimalist gesture. "Of course. Is there a problem?"

I have to tell him, don't I? Not the whole truth, whatever that is, but enough of it for him to understand why I'm asking this.

"A friend of mine was attacked in the street; hit on the head. The hospital just called." That should be enough, but in case it isn't... "They're asking for me." I obscure the gender by instinct. Some habits die hard.

He sits back a little in his chair, studying me as if he's trying to see into my very soul, but all he says aloud is: "I hope they're alright."

"Thank you, sir." I nod and head for the door, taking his reply as a dismissal. Maybe he'll let this go. Maybe.

He waits until I'm halfway through the door before he adds: "You can tell me about it tomorrow."

Damn.

I guess not.

On the hospital bed in front of me, she can't quite seem to rest. She looks dizzily around the room, tries to prop herself up and finally she falls back onto the mattress before repeating the cycle, all the while moving her mouth soundlessly. Maybe it's my name she's trying to say, maybe not. Does it really matter?

"Emma," I say gently, to no effect.

"Emma," I repeat a little louder, and little firmer.

This seems to catch her attention as she glassily focusses on me.

I smile at her, but I'm honestly not sure if she sees me. "I'm here, now."

Her brow crinkles a little. Possibly she wants to say something, possibly she's just still traumatised from the attack. Either way, what she needs now is rest.

"You're safe. You can go to sleep."

She relaxes, but not totally. She's still looking at me, but I don't know what she's trying to say.

I opt for a comforting "I'll watch over you," silently adding: I'll keep you safe.

It seems to work. She closes her eyes and her breathing slows.

Leaving me alone with my thoughts. Wondering how I got here. I keep myself apart, aloof, compartmentalised. I don't allow blurring between the boundaries of the disparate parts of my life. I don't **allow** people to cross over. Well, apart from maybe Celia, and that comparison leads to places that are uncomfortable to say the least.

Emma's the only person I've had sex with more than once in far too long. And just thinking about the last time...

* * *

It was over. Rationally, I knew that. I knew the way that this always played. The hunt. The sex. The inevitable retreat so I could cry and let it all out. And then never being able to really connect to them in the same way. I knew my habits. I knew how I worked.

But at the moment, I wasn't feeling the need to get up, the inexorable pressure to leave just yet. No, I was looking at the remains of her hallway table in a state of mild confusion.

"What happened to the table?" I asked no one in particular, rather hoping that the obvious answer wasn't the correct one.

Emma moved next to me, divesting herself of the remnants of her clothing. Oh god. What had I been thinking?

If thinking is the right word.

"We did, darling," she said, her voice purring, sending desire shooting through me.

I... blushed. This wasn't the way things went. I wasn't supposed to be feeling like I wanted her, or anyone, to fuck me, not now. I focussed on the splintered wood before me desperately. "Sorry! I'll," I juddered to a halt as I caught sight of her skin glistening in the dim light. Focus, I told myself, focus. I cleared my throat. "I'll pay for the damage."

I kept my gaze away from her, unable to risk meeting her eyes. I **liked** Emma, damn it. How could I do this to her, to us?

"You already did, darling," she whispered throatily in my ear, sending a thrill through me that just should not have been possible. "In fact, I think you rather overpaid. Luckily, I seem to have your change right here." And with that she loosened the jacket from my shoulders.

I was numb. I should be moving, doing **something** , but all I could do was say "You don't have to do that." Undercutting my words, my body decided to shift a little, opening myself to her ministrations.

Emma, of course, took full advantage of the situation.

"I know I don't **have** to," she purred, pulling at my shirt with ungentle fingers, "But I **want** to."

The report of buttons violently loosed from my shirt awoke me from my almost stupor. I may be entering unknown territory, unknown for at least the last several years. Ever since I had reinvented myself. My world may be tilting, and the only stationary point seemed to be the woman doing it. But this could all be handled another time, and I sealed the chaos, the confusion away. We had had sex before. I could treat this like any other night.

Of course, by the look in her eyes, Emma had other ideas.

And I was lost.

  
It was over. I felt like crystal, but it was over. The sex had been... But I could feel the pain, the anger, the fear from my day job there in the background.

And it wasn't going to remain in the background for long. I could feel it approaching like a tsunami.

I should have been making my preparations to leave now. One of the first lessons I had learned, travelling from school to school was 'Never show weakness, never let them see you cry.' Further events had only reinforced this. I didn't cry, preferably didn't even show emotion in front of others. So I should have been leaving right now, just ahead of the flood.

But I wasn't.

I definitely shouldn't have been wrapping my arms around her, clinging to her as my walls started to be overwhelmed.

Yet here I was.

Then the levee broke, as it always did, the emotional waters bursting from inside of me until the only thing I could do was cry.

And cry.

I cried for the victims, the ones I wasn't able to save. I cried for their families and friends, those left behind. I even cried for the criminals. It was our job to get inside their minds, and that carries with it a certain amount of necessary empathy for them.

It was only when the storm subsided that I realised that Emma was holding me and stroking my hair calmingly, as if I were a child.

I was so numb that I couldn't even tell whether I thought that this was a good thing or not. It was something that I'd never normally allow.

What the hell, I thought tiredly. It wasn't as though I hadn't broken far too many of my usually ironclad rules tonight.

So I stayed there a while.

I would have liked to be able to claim that the only reason I was doing this was because of the mindblowing sex I'd just been treated to. But, unfortunately, lying to myself has never been one of my talents. In the cold light of day, what happened here was probably going to mildly terrify me.

But for now it was still the night, and all I could muster was a vague feeling that I shouldn't have done this in front of her, that I'd burdened her with problems. We weren't even in a relationship. She had made very plain her feelings in that regard.

What I wanted I could look at later.

"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice still a little hoarse from tears.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked after a moment.

"No." I'd washed away my demons for the moment and had no desire to drag them out from the depths again. But she sounded like she cared, like she wanted to know. Maybe I could talk about it another time, but I wasn't in a fit state to decide. "Not now. Maybe later." It seemed almost incredible that I could trust someone else almost as much as I trusted Celia. I laughed and gave her the same words I always gave my best friend. "Just a bad day at the office."

"I'm here if you need me." Her words were slow, almost unwilling.

I hugged her briefly in gratitude. My recall of her profile was hazy at best at the moment, but I guessed that those words cost. "Thank you."

I was so tired, fatigue and emotional outpouring making my limbs feel like lead. I should leave now. I really should.

"Do you mind if I stay the night?" I asked instead in a small voice.

She'd probably say no. She should probably say no. It had never been asked, nor offered before, an understanding unspoken between us.

But tonight was mad, with all the usual rules shattered and in pieces. And I wanted someone, her, to just hold me until sanity returned to the world.

"Of course not," she said, and I was too tired to tell whether or not she was lying. Even if she was lying, even if she did mind, the fact that she cared enough to give me this one night allowed me to release my hold on consciousness with a smile on my lips, my head cradled on her stomach.

* * *

I drag myself out of memory lane to find that Emma has commandeered my arm in her sleep. Whereas some people might have held it as though seeking comfort, she manages to look like she was simultaneously doing me a favour and that I had better be paying attention, because there **would** be a test later.

I'm left uneasily wondering exactly what the test might be.

Eventually, I have to try to untangle myself from her. My arm is going to sleep, and I can feel the pull of an ache starting up in my lower back. I gently try to disengage, keeping my movements slow and smooth so as not to wake her up. She isn't having any of it. Frowning in her sleep, she actually smacks my arm. The blow is rather pathetic -- I barely even feel it -- but the sentiment is clear.

"Stay," she mumbles. The word is fuzzy and indistinct, but she sounds distinctly... cross. Demanding. Imperious. It's very Emma. "Please?" That isn't; neither the sentiment nor the uncertain, almost nervous way her voice quavers. So, despite the awkwardness of the angle, despite the aches and twinges, despite my faint sense of unease at just how **right** this feels, I stay exactly where I am.

What else can I do?

Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead lightly. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell her. The lines on her forehead smooth out, and she sinks back into the depths of unconsciousness.

Arranging myself as comfortably as I can, I settle back to watch her sleep.

* * *

My apartment was my home, my sanctuary. I could count the number of people I'd let into my apartment on my fingers. I'd never let anyone else into the library or my bedroom.

Not here. Not in this apartment.

There was no way that it should be so easy to let anyone, even someone who managed to flow past my defences as easily as Emma had, into here without freaking. Just a little bit. Just enough to show how **wrong** all this was.

I waited in vain. Nothing.

I propped myself up on one elbow and contemplated her in the darkness. I was still moderately surprised that she had accepted my invitation to stay. The fact that she had feelings for me was undeniable. I just didn't know what kept her flinching away from me. Maybe it was a bad last relationship. I smirked a little. It certainly wasn't a problem with lady loving. She was far too enthusiastic for that. Not to mention entirely too public for my tastes at times.

Maybe she'd overcome it, despite her words this very evening. 'Just friends' did not exactly describe our relationship. And friends with benefits didn't explain Emma sprawled out in my bed, platonically..

Experience told me that there might be reaction in the morning. She could draw away.

I just hoped that I could accept it gracefully if it happened. She was far too close to my heart.

Tonight had been, for want of a better word, magical. I had let Emma in to my sanctum, to my secret self, and she hadn't hurt me. Had, as far as I could tell, accepted me.

Though I guessed time would tell how cute she found my idiosyncracies down the line.

My heart may have melted a little at the thought of knowing her down the line. Even just as a friend.

I'd accepted that I had fallen for her. I'd accepted that she wasn't in the same place as I was. I hadn't quite accepted, prior to this evening, the hope that she might be in the same place, or might be soon.

That she might not hurt me. On a conscious level, at least. My heart had apparently had other ideas.

It was times like this that my inner psychologist reminded me just how messed up I was. Functionally messed up, for my job and my prior to Emma life, but still a little off kilter. Then again, most people on the team were a little broken, one way or another.

But it had worked. My cycle of tension and release, with Celia to smooth the cycles, **worked**. Maybe it could work with Emma. I really hoped so.

I didn't know what I'd do if it didn't. Adapt to the changes she'd wreaked in my world. Survive, I guessed.

Survival, despite the costs, was one of my talents

"What is it?" she asked sleepily.

I had to smile. Near sleep had dropped almost all her many shields and she looked even more beautiful than ever, stealing my heart all over again.

There was no going back for me now.

"Nothing." I murmured in response. Absolutely nothing at all.

"Then get back down here," she grumbled and held out her arms. "You're letting the heat out."

I briefly contemplated ripping the covers off her in retaliation for a certain incident involving cold feet earlier in the evening. But, in the end, her open arms proved far too enticing and I relaxed into them.

"I like what you did with your hair today. It suits you," she said to me.

I had to smile. Typical Emma, always noticing appearances. I might even have snarked about it if I hadn't visited a hairdressers especially this afternoon. I contented myself with simply replying, "I'm glad you liked it."

"I do," she said. Her breath grew more even as she relaxed, slipping towards sleep. "I like you," she murmured, her voice stripped of artifice, brimming with meaning.

I wasn't sure whether or not she was asleep, but I replied anyway. "I like you too."

She tilted my world, became a centre of gravity, and I didn't think she even realised it.

* * *

"Emily?" Emma's voice asks, and she's conscious, focussed, **here**.

Thank God.

"You're awake. How do you feel?" I ask.

"Unfortunately like a hard object impacted my head at some velocity." She tilts her head a little before continuing. "It doesn't feel like there's much else wrong with me though."

I do have to admit, it does sound like she is almost back to normal. Worryingly, it also sounds like the voice of experience talking. I query her about it, and she confirms my suspicions. That's... interesting. Very interesting.

An international woman of mystery indeed.

You still have secrets, Ms Emma Winthrop. And I'm going to continue to root them out.

But first, I need to make sure you're alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first flashback takes place during the sex scene of [part 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/207659/chapters/309891) of Faces (Need/Desire) and the second takes place at the end of [part 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/207659/chapters/309903) (Resonances).


	2. Back to work

The day after next, I return to work. I feel a certain amount of nervousness as I approach the office. I've exposed myself, broken cover, and there **will** be questions. It merely remains to be seen how many and how probing.

Knowing my colleagues and knowing the Game, I'm not optimistic.

I enter the room and immediately feel like all eyes are on me. Just great.

For some reason, I find myself thinking of those old cartoons where a predator looks at another character and sees them as a pork chop on legs. I feel like that pork chop.

Glancing around would be a tell, would show that I care. Of course, not glancing around is also a tell, but it fits my general attitude at work.

Moving as if I haven't a care in the world -- as if the wolves aren't circling -- I stick to my usual routine: dumping my coat and bag at my desk, I fire up my computer and check my e-mail. The subject lines, at least, skimming a couple of the urgent-looking mails in their entirety. Then, and most importantly, coffee. 'Coincidentally,' a not-insignificant number of my colleagues seem to either be heading in that direction themselves, or to have already ensconced themselves in the general vicinity. Within earshot, naturally.

And so it begins.

Morgan is strutting towards his goal on a vector that just happens to intersect mine. We fall into step. There's something knowing in his easy grin, his eyes glinting with predatory eagerness.

I'm pretty certain he's deliberately broadcasting.

"Prentiss."

"Morgan."

Maybe he just got lucky last night and is dying to tell me all about it. Actually, knowing Morgan, that probably is the case. It's just not the only thing he wants to talk to me about.

Reid and Garcia have pulled up a couple of chairs and are in a huddle, their mugs on the table in front of them. They're talking animatedly about something, hands flying every which way as they gesticulate for emphasis. They look up as I approach, their greetings overlapping each other.

"Hey Emz! Long time no see!"

"Hi Emily. Did you see my e-mail?"

I pause to greet them, letting Morgan go on ahead. "Hey Garcia. Hi Reid." I can't help but return Garcia's smile. She has that effect on people. To Reid, I say: "Yes, but I've only skimmed it. I'll look it over more thoroughly when I'm sufficiently caffeinated, but it looks good at first glance." I turn to Garcia. "New shirt?" It's gauzy and metallic, shimmering gently in the light. Her bronze nail polish complements the hue perfectly.

"Yep! You like it?"

"I do. Very cyberpunk."

"Thanks, sweetie." She dimples, pleased. "That's exactly what I was aiming for."

I nod to them, and continue in my epic quest for caffeine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see JJ emerge from her office and head this way. I suddenly recall a documentary I saw once, an image of a pack of coyotes surrounding a fresh kill. I wonder why.

Rationally, I know that they're not really just waiting to rip apart my facade and feed upon the viscera of my secrets. They're my colleagues and my friends, and I can't really begrudge them a little healthy curiosity. Especially when I'm usually so close-mouthed about my not-work life. But... But.

What can I say? I have privacy issues.

Anyway, I wonder which one of them is going to leap forward to take the first bite out of this juicy treat.

 

I sense a presence behind me as I pick up my freshly-poured coffee, turning to see a grinning face.

Et tu, Morgan?

Well, it has to be someone, I suppose. It might as well be him.

"So," he says, without preamble, setting his mug aside and leaning casually against the counter. "I heard an interesting rumour."

Ah. The direct approach.

"Oh?" I ask blandly, raising my eyebrows with just the right degree of polite interest. If that's the way he wants to play it, I'll oblige. For now. Settling into my own casual pose, I take a sip of my drink and let him respond.

(The coffee is passable this morning, which means someone other than Reid must have started the brew. Boy might be a certified genius and all, but he can't make coffee worth a damn.)

"Rumour has it," he continues, "that someone possesses an actual life outside these walls. A life that, perhaps, might even include a special **friend**." He pronounces the word with salacious relish, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

There's nothing like subtlety. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the BAU, is **nothing** like subtlety.

"Well, you know what they say about rumours," I observe, shrugging casually as I take another sip of coffee. My other colleagues have pretty much all abandoned their pretense of doing anything other than eavesdropping shamelessly. I hope they're enjoying the show. I intend to make Morgan work for this.

Time to go on the attack.

"For example, **I** heard a rumour that a someone standing not a million miles away from here recently had something of an embarrassment of riches on that front." I shake my head. "It must be tough when three of the women you're dating turn out to know each other. I bet they were surprised when they started comparing notes on their love lives."

Morgan just grins even wider. Damn. What did I miss? "Nice try, Prentiss, but I'm afraid the expiration date on that one's already passed by. If you'd been here yesterday, you would've known that. But of course you weren't."

Curses. I'd have to get the scoop from Garcia afterwards. In the meantime, maybe something work-related...

"True." A beat, and then: "So, I see there's been a break in Alvarez's case. He must be pleased." Dangling the bait in front of him, watching to see if he'll bite.

He does. "Ha! Yeah," he shakes his head, grinning. "Looks like he's finally going to be able to wrap this one up. He's already planning the celebration."

"Yeah, I saw." I hadn't actually read the relevant e-mail, but given the subject line ("Party-Time!!!!") and that Alvarez had been spending his nights and weekends on this case since forever, it wasn't too difficult to make the leap. Looks like I called it correctly.

"If that's true, he's really beaten the odds on this one," Reid observes thoughtfully. "That fraction of cases actually closed after so long without any leads is..."

"Unimportant," Morgan breaks in. "since this isn't going to be one of them."

"Do you know if it was your latest idea that pushed him over the edge?" Alvarez had a complete lack of shame when it came to begging for help with his project, including from various members of the team at different times. I'd seen some familiar looking files on Morgan's desk a few weeks ago, so it wasn't hard to guess that he'd been helping pursue Alvarez's white whale.

Though apparently it hadn't been that fruitless after all.

"Maybe," Morgan said. "I **did** work out a few profiles recently using my elite profiling skills, which could well have given him the edge he needs." He grins easily. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd made the needed difference."

"So, no idea then," I translated. "Looks like I'll have to ask Alvarez myself."

"So you'll be coming to the party?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Emma and I may well have been living almost hand in pocket these last few days, but if I were any judge, we'd be scratching each other's faces off if we didn't have some time away from each other by that point.

'Sides, I was devilishly curious about Alvarez's story.

"Anyway," I tell him. "I've got work and a small flood of emails to catch up on." I turn and walk unhurriedly back to my desk, smiling to myself as I hear Morgan softly curse behind me.

Point to me, I do believe.

I settle down in my seat, and get my smartphone out. I may have plenty of things I should be doing right now, but this is the first time that I've had a chance to check out certain... details. I didn't really want to do this whilst Emma was around, just in case. She really has the most damnable habit of being able to read me at the most inconvenient times.

My research centres around the fact that Emma doesn't have the accent of someone who has been working outside the U.S. for a prolonged time. At least as best I can tell given her affected English accent. I can only think of one school domestically that has come under terrorist attack.

I may not be Garcia, but a few clicks later and I have the start of a new trail. I'm also really glad that I didn't use my work computer. It may not be against policy, but I'm fairly sure that I don't want to draw attention to the fact that I'm sort of dating a mutant.

So, Emma Frost, I now have your name. I wonder what your mutation is, if it still exists. If it does, it's not anything externally visible.

Garcia would either know or be able to find out, but I'm not ready for that yet. And I'm not sure that Garcia would favour me if I asked her. It might just push her away from me, and I don't really want to risk that.

So, put the new information together with what I already know, and what do we get?

She's strong willed, manipulative and likes to feel dominant in any given situation. Some memories surface, and I almost shiver. With absolutely no compunction against using sexual wiles, even in the most mundane of contests.

Not that I am exactly complaining about that.

I walk through her apartment in my mind. Entrance hall, living room, past the kitchen, to the bedroom.

Oh god, I'm following the path we went the first time I visited, aren't I?

Though I guess that was hardly the last time I used that particular route. And I definitely don't remember noticing that much detail the first time. Not on the way in, in any case. Emma's very good at distraction.

In any case, everything's new, everything's shiny. Even the things that look like antiques have that 'just brought from a dealer' look.

As I've noted before, that isn't normal. No matter how clean a break, people always keep something.

Except if that's not an option.

I had thought that she might be on the run, maybe from an ex. It had always seemed a little off - I couldn't imagine Emma running from anyone that she had power over.

But given what she had told me a couple of days ago, after the attack? I could believe that she'd run from herself.

And the things in her apartment, they're expensive, but not as expensive as the CEO of Frost International could afford, and Emma certainly didn't seem the type to revere frugality and not project the best image she could. Which implies that she doesn't have full access to her funds.

Which in turn means that whoever she doesn't want to find her could trace her if she used her normal funds.

The government or mutants seem the obvious answers to that question. But Emma didn't seem unduly fazed when she guess that I was an F.B.I. profiler, so government is unlikely. Mutants then.

Former friends or former foes? Probably both, I decide after a moment of contemplation. She wasn't ready to go back, and, from what she said, her compatriots would probably exert pressure upon her to return.

I did my best to bury the voice that said that I'd really like her to stay here. It wasn't a problem at the moment and... And that meant that I had time to see what she needed to do. And adjust myself and my hopes accordingly.

I shake my head free of my contemplation, clear the search and pocket my phone. I'm a few emails into my backlog when I feel the gaze of various colleagues of mine who seem to have taken to hovering nearby, as if by happenstance. Some happenstance. I make the strategic error of looking up and manage to catch Garcia's soulful eyes.

"Come on Emz. You're not going to hold out on us, are you?" Ouch. Low blow, Garcia. How am I supposed to resist that pleading expression?

Ah well. I guess I'm going to have to have to share the basics after all.

I shrug with reasonably good grace. "There isn't that much to tell. One of my friends was attacked on the street and ended up with a concussion. They had to stay in hospital overnight for observation and then needed help with getting home and grocery shopping and the like. There wasn't anyone else they could call. That's it."

"Ohmigosh! What happened? Was it a mugging? Are they okay? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Woah, slow down. One question at a time," I say, allowing a lopsided smile to form, then fade. "Someone hit them over the head. They don't really remember anything about the incident" -- well, at least she **said** she didn't -- "but it could well have been an attempted mugging. Luckily, the injury wasn't too serious and they seem to be recovering well. Thanks for the offer, Garcia. I don't think there is anything, but if there is I'll let you know."

Yeah, it's a touching offer, but I suspect that it's never going to happen. Whenever I so much as drift near the subject of the attack, Emma gets more than a little defensive.

She might talk to me about it, but not soon, not unless the counsellor I've managed to persuade her to see can work miracles.

"So, about this friend..." Morgan starts to resume the interrogation, but is interrupted by Hotch.

"Emily, can I have a quick word with you in my office?"

"Sure." I follow him up the stairs to his office, taking my coffee with me. I have the feeling I'm going to need it.

Saved by the boss, or out of the frying pan into the fire?

I know which one I'm betting on.

 

[Present: Emily blindsided by Hotch]

"Thanks again for letting me take the time off," I say, as I sit in the chair across from his. "I'm sorry about the short notice. I'll make sure I catch up with everything important."

"I know you will." He dismisses the subject with a slight, abbreviated movement of one hand. Evidently he isn't intending to chew me out for my attendance. Not that he would, but that would probably be better than what I suspect this is leading to. "How is your friend?"

"Recovering well, thank you," I say carefully. "It was just a mild concussion. The doctors at the hospital were really just being cautious by having them stay in for observation."

"Well, you never know with head injuries," he observes. "Even mild ones can potentially have major long-term consequences. And the immediate effects can be quite debilitating at the time." He pauses for a second, regarding me.

I nod in acknowledgement, hoping that he'll leave it there. But instinct tells me he's going somewhere with this, a conversational trap that I'll only avoid if I'm damned lucky.

Sometimes, he's far too good at this.

"People can do the strangest things while suffering from impaired consciousness," he muses thoughtfully, as if this is just idle reminiscing. "Most often -- at least, in my experience -- the concussed individual will focus on something with an almost maniacal intensity. Nothing else matters but this one thing." A wry smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "Around here, it's mostly about getting the job done."

"Mmm." I acknowledge the point, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No way is the interrogation over so easily. I don't have to wait long for my instincts to be proved right.

"Your friend was asking for you, you said," he says casually. Too casually. "Hmmm." He waits a beat, giving me a chance to respond. I don't, so he continues. "The two of you must be very close."

"We're good friends." Even as I speak the words, I wonder if they're true. **Are** we friends? We're passionate, certainly. We converse easily. We enjoy spending time together. We... I think there's trust there, of a sort. We've both revealed vulnerabilities to each other; both shared secrets. Is that friendship? If not, then what?

Uncharacteristically, my internal musings distract me so that it takes a moment for Hotch's next words to register.

"I look forward to meeting them at the next BAU dinner."

"Huh?" I say wittily, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Partners and... good friends are always welcome. Please feel free to extend the invitation to them."

Why does that last part sound like an order? And why do I have the feeling that Hotch is enjoying this?

"I'll have to see if they can make it," I temporise, hoping against hope that I can head this calamity off at the pass.

"Good," he says, nodding as if the matter is settled. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the same way they do when he's trusting one of his team to Get. The. Job. Done.

Damn.

That's the one ploy I can never resist, and I would wager dollars to donuts that if anyone knows that, it's Hotch.

Double damn.

It looks like I'll be introducing Emma to my colleagues.

Oh God.

Emma. And my colleagues. In the same room.

For hours.

I think I need something a little stronger than coffee. Celia is going to laugh her socks off at...

Oh God.

I haven't told Celia about Emma. If my colleagues meet Emma before she does, she's going to kill me. Slowly.

I have to tell her.

I have to tell her **tonight**.

I'll have to introduce Celia and Emma.

Oh God.

Why couldn't someone have hit **me** over the head?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Nonpresence of LJ for betaing.


	3. Factor Redux

Celia's welcoming smile fails to have quite its usual lifting effect on me. Possibly because I'm more than a little nervous.

She always has been able to read me like a book. And I rather suspect that she's going to be far too interested in the contents this time.

"Hey," she says, hugging me tightly.

"Hey," I reply as I settle myself down, coffee in front of me.

She waits until I'm seated, observing me with bright eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Truly we are witness to a week of wonders. The great and mighty Emily Prentiss has broken her usually ironclad routine not once, but twice. Not only did she stand me up for a coffee meet on a morning after one of her prowls," she pauses for dramatic effect and I wince a little. No, she definitely has not forgiven me for that yet. "But she requested the pleasure of my company out of the blue a few days after that. So..?" she waves a hand in the air, demanding elucidation.

"Yes, the two events are connected," I tell her.

She pumps an arm in victory. "Oh, yes! Let me guess, you found someone who you actually stayed the night with?"

I do my best attempt at an offhanded shrug. "I guess it had to happen sooner or later."

" **Not** what you were saying last time we had this conversation, but I'll let that pass for now. So tell me about this paragon of femininity already!"

"Caucasian female. Blonde hair, blue eyes. In good shape. Dresses well." Celia frowns, opening her mouth to, no doubt, let me know in no uncertain terms how unsatisfied she is with the identikit description. Not that I blame her, but it's not important right now. The next part is, and I hurry through it before she can actually voice her complaint. "And, well, I didn't just meet her a few nights ago."

Celia's eyebrows shoot up. "You **have** been holding out on me." There's a slightly hurt look in her eyes.

"My relationship with Emma can be mostly described as just plain weird." I say a little bluntly. I bite my lip for a moment or two. It's hard talking about this even with Celia. "She doesn't really fit neatly into any of my existing boxes," I manage, finally.

"Oh." Celia digests that for a second or so. She's aware enough of me to know how much of a big deal that is to me. My system of balances. "She must really be something special then."

I snort, breaking the tension. "She's certainly something, alright. Even how I met her doesn't really make sense."

"I sense a story," she asks, a small smirk on her face.

"Believe it or not, it started on our last trip to the S X Factor."

She giggles. "Only you could manage to pick a **girl** up there."

"Oh, it gets better..."

* * *

I hated this place. The so-called music (repetitive bass lines overlaid with garbled lyrics about hos and bitches), the drinks (watered down, overpriced swill), the temperature (stifling) and the smell (oh god, the smell). What was not to loathe? And then there was the detritus that littered the floor: slimy, greasy, filthy and just plain disgusting. Not just the stuff that clung to my boots but, worse than that, the mobile refuse that tried to cling to **me**.

This was the S X Factor in all its dubious glory.

And, just to make the experience that much more **magical** , I had to watch Celia attempting to cop off with a variety of strange men.

Wonderful. What a **fantastic** way to spend a Saturday night.

So, why was I here again? Even as I asked myself the question, I saw the answer standing at the bar, draping herself over some musclebound meathead. Briefly looking up from her latest conquest, she met my eyes across the room and flashed me a salacious smile. I knew that smile. It said: 'I'm getting lucky tonight.' Loudly. I raised my barely-touched glass in honour of her successful hunt, but she had already turned back to her primate of the moment.

I wished that meant my duties were done for the evening. That I could leave now. It wasn't like I was actually having fun here. But, like a fool, like some knight with delusions of chivalry, I stayed to watch over my best friend. To make sure that she was okay, to be here if she needed me. Just in case.

Because I knew what could happen. I'd seen the aftermath far too many times.

Lost in thought, it took me a few moments to realise that someone was trying to get my attention. Some sweaty, lycra-clad Conan-wannabe, minus the Cimmerian's wit and charm, was apparently making a rather drunken pass at me. Great. Just what I needed. Who knew that staring morosely into the distance somehow translated into "Please try to get into my pants"?

I half absentmindedly looked him over. Oh god. I swear that they make men at the Factor in industrial batches. Probably in the same vats they make the 'beer.' This looked like an example of the type I'd labeled Factor 12. I could almost recite his very probable profile in my sleep, no more work needed. I inserted the relevant snappy put down, thought up when I had more enthusiasm about the whole deal, and...

Oh look. The guy wilted, just like all his many clone brothers I've encountered before. What. A. Surprise.

I glowered into my drink, mustering up my courage to take another mouthful, as I prayed for something, **anything** to differentiate this night from the many others I spent here watching over Celia.

When I sensed someone else approaching with purpose, I could have groaned aloud. Hadn't I earned at least a few minutes' grace before the next wave? Determined to head this one off before he could actually start talking to me, I looked up... only to find myself faced with, not another marauding meathead, but a woman. An attractive woman. Huge blue eyes with the devil himself dancing behind them. Short, platinum blonde hair. Dyed, of course, but done well. It suited her. She was also impressively well-endowed. Not that I noticed. Much.

"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I'm not yet another of the marauding, barely washed crowd." I guess anyone not completely body language illiterate would notice that I wasn't exactly welcoming company this evening. How depressing was it that, so far, she seemed to be the only person who'd picked up on that?

That and the smile just about cancelled out her cheap attempt at an English accent. Why do certain people **do** that? Seriously. Fake does not equal exotic. Though from the look of it, that was far from the only fake thing about her.

"So I see," I said, raising an eyebrow and slapping my inner bitch down firmly. The Factor must really be getting to me.

And she did somehow manage to carry the whole effect off quite well, much to my reluctant admiration. Quite well indeed.

And this was definitely different. It was almost enough to make me believe in prayer.

"Then there's obviously not enough hours in the day?" she said, laughing. "I have to say that I approve. Can I buy you a drink in the name of women everywhere?"

I almost blinked. Oh, yes, my dismissal line. I had to laugh. I'd really never thought that it would be an opening with someone. And I'd definitely never thought it would lead to a woman offering to buy me a drink here, of all places.

I took a longer glance at her, letting my training come to the fore. The first thing that came to my attention was her outfit. It was a little too familiar, which is probably why I hadn't twigged immediately. She was dressed in what I call 'rich girl's casual.' In depth knowledge of fashion wasn't really my thing, but I knew enough to be fairly sure that her outfit cost way more than anyone else's here. And that was including Celia. (Though to be fair, Celia actually did dress down for Factor trawling.) The reason why it was familiar was that girls at various of my schools had enjoyed slumming it. (And, okay, a few times to my shame I'd been one of those girls.)

But not quite like this. Then the girls had been flaunting themselves in a completely overdone fashion. This seemed almost to be saying 'Don't notice me' (rather than, say, 'I want to have your STDs').

Well, it was modest by the local standards anyway. I couldn't help noticing that it clung to her curves nicely.

And her attitude, the way she moved. That didn't say 'I don't want to be noticed.' It didn't say modest. And the way her gaze was drawn to my lips...

I groaned internally. I had **definitely** been here too long. I couldn't quite believe that a woman would be checking me out in this sea of hormonal heterosexuality.

But there was no way that I was going to look this gift horse in the mouth. She was far too interesting, no, fascinating for that.

Hey, it would be impolite to turn down a free drink. And I wouldn't want to be thought impolite. "When you put it like that how can I refuse? I'm Emily Prentiss, by the way."

"Emma Winthrop," she said. "So what brings you to a place like this? I'm guessing it's not the wares," her voice brimming with amusement.

Oh dear god no. I shuddered at the very thought. I'd seen far too many of the men here to consider it, even if I had still been under delusions of liking the opposite sex that way. "Please. A friend wanted to come here and her usual crowd cancelled at the last minute." I shrugged. "I didn't want her to be by herself." There's no way that I'd be willing to have a friend come here alone. Let alone Celia. I'd seen the statistics of places like this. But enough of such thoughts. I put them away and gave her a wry smile. "Though, when last seen, that's not going to be a problem for the rest of the night." Of course, that did lead to the question of why Emma was here. It definitely wasn't for the drinks or the music (or the quality of conversation my snark added). "You don't seem to be here for the nightlife either. So what's your story?"

Her voice was sardonic. "Reminding myself that being single is far from the worst fate that could happen to me. That and people watching."

"People watching?" It was dark and the music meant that you had to almost have your ear next to someone's mouth to hear them.

I couldn't help but notice that I wasn't exactly having a problem with that.

"While it may be too loud to actually hear what impending couples are saying to each other, I don't let that stop me putting words in their mouths. It's usually wittier and more articulate that way too."

"I see," I said in my best neutral voice. Although my inner bitch was having great difficulty not conceding that point, I had no intention of helping inflate her apparently all too healthy ego.

She apparently decided to explain the point. "Look at those two over there."

I followed her finger to a middle aged man dancing with someone who I wasn't sure was legal. She then proceeded to give me a rendition of her version of what they might be saying. Complete with actions and funny voices.

It was horrible. It was cruel. It really wasn't something that I should find at all funny.

God help me, I couldn't help but guiltily think it was hilarious.

This place really wasn't good for my general love of humanity.

And, on further consideration, I decided that I could definitely get used to her voice. Even if I wasn't willing to concede the accent.

That thought made me realise this had to stop now. I was **not** on a hunt, and, dammit, I was going to seal anything else away and just enjoy the one evening at the Factor that had the potential to not be made of total suck.

This was, of course, the point when she asked me to have a go.

I almost refused, saying that this kind of thing really wasn't me, that there was no way that I could do that. But she looked at me with those dancing blue eyes, just inviting me to participate. And then I remembered conversations with Celia where, a little the worse for wear, she insisted on blow by blow accounts of her evenings here.

Maybe I could do this after all.

A run through of a somewhat typical Celia encounter earned me a sufficiently snarky accolade that I must have achieved at least a passing grade in her eyes. Even if I did refuse to do the funny voices.

And once we'd started, there was no stopping us. I quickly realised that the effect this place had was nothing. **Emma** was going to be bad for my general opinion of humanity. Thankfully, it wasn't just wall to wall mockery, though I did have to dissuade men from coming up to speak to us periodically. (I did try to use a bit more flair than usual, and she seemed to appreciate my efforts.) She was an excellent conversationalist, though I noticed (mostly in retrospect) that we stayed away from anything of import. Not that that was precisely a problem for me - it felt like we made our own little bubble, sealed away from everything else.

I even forgot about Celia for a while. So thoroughly that I realised I had lost track of her. When I looked around, she was at the bar, nursing a drink and alone. That was definitely her 'I'm done for the evening' look. Crap. I hoped that she hadn't been waiting too long.

I looked back towards Emma. "Ah. Celia seems to have lost her partner and looks about ready to go," I said apologetically

"Thank you for the pleasure of your charming company," she said. She then pulled her cell phone out and waved it at me with a smile. "If you ever want to meet up again, here's my number."

The realisation that I **really** liked her smile came leaking out of the box, and I found myself cupping her hand with one of mine, steadying the phone. I had definitely had a little too much to drink, a fact reinforced by the certainty that I just didn't care. She really was very attractive. "There we go," I said as entered her number. Something made me add, "Now I have you."

"Bold, aren't you?" she asked teasingly, one eyebrow raised, not at all phased by my flirtation.

The encouragement was all I needed. I looked deep into her eyes and replied, "You know what they say about who fortune favours..."

"Personally, I've always found fortune a fickle bitch," she said, pulling back her hand. "At best."

Crap. I couldn't believe that I'd done that. What had I been thinking? If thinking was the word.

"I might take you up on that next time I'm in the area," I said as lightly as I could manage. A polite lie, of course. I really would prefer to forget this embarrassment. "But only if we can avoid this plague pit." I gave her a shudder. I might as well make the lie a believeable one.

"Maybe you can suggest somewhere better," she said, a slight purr entering her voice, sending me back into a state of mild confusion.

I was obviously too off my game to evaluate the situation now. That didn't stop me replying, "I know a few suitable places. Depending." Depending mostly on what I decided on in the cold light of day.

But it wasn't necessarily a 'no' anymore.

She added some extra heat to her smile. "Depending."

I touched her shoulder then moved off through the crowd towards Celia. My last thought before I got embroiled in the latest drama was that, if we did meet up again, I'd decided that she could keep the accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback is Emily's version of part 1 of Faces


	4. Celia/Desire

"I can't believe that you chatted someone up by mocking me," Celia repeats, a look of utter disgust on her face.

It's a testament to my iron will that I don't break down laughing right then and there.

"You seem to be a little stuck on that," I note. "And it's not as though I told her who I was basing my conversations on."

She scowls. "That's hardly the point."

I shrug, unrepentant. "It was all I could think of at the time. Where else am I supposed to get tales of heterosexual woe?"

"None of your work colleagues would fit?"

My mind flashes immediately Morgan-wards and Celia smirks like she's scored a point.

She knows me entirely too well. That, and I feel like I can actually be more or less open around her. It isn't as though she doesn't know much of it already, anyway.

I concede the point with a nod. "But his stories aren't nearly as good as yours."

"I guess I am exceptional," she says, preening, letting me know I'm more or less forgiven, before changing the subject. "I always said that your clever tongue could get you anywhere," she says as she waggles her eyebrows a little.

She's trying to make me blush with her flirting. She's pretty much the only one who can. Worse, she can do it more or less at will. Tonight, tonight for some reason it doesn't work.

"You have **no** idea," I tell her in a similar vein. "Maybe you need to trade up."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," she teases. But we both know that she really isn't sapphically inclined, and I've been good with that for quite some time. Depended on it, even. "But I'm in politics, and the sweaty desperation you get at the Factor tastes like mana from heaven."

"Ew," I make a face. "It's bad enough that you like fucking the men you like to pick up there. Please don't tell me you put them in your mouth too." I'm sure that they're nice people, mostly, but washing really does seem to be an optional part of the code there.

Her eyes take on a gleeful look and I realise that I've made a tactical error. I can almost see the TMI written on her retinas. She lets me hang for a moment before taking pity on me. "I know what your game is here, Emily. You're trying to avoid talking about your girlfriend."

I'm too relieved at the near miss to mind that she found me out. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Really." Even I'm impressed about how much sarcasm she manages to squeeze into that one word.

"Like I said, our relationship isn't easily pinned down."

She looks at me for a second, then nods slowly. "Fair enough." She grins at me. "But you've had sex?"

I nod, a little uneasily.

She catches my shifty look, of course. Damn. "Third date?"

I don't reply.

"Second?"

"Depends if you count the meeting in the Factor as our first."

"I shouldn't be surprised, but I had somehow thought if you did actually date someone, you wouldn't be quite that quick."

"It came as something of a surprise to me too. It wasn't exactly intentional."

"What did you **do** for this date?"

"Coffee," I said shortly.

"Coffee," she repeats, then blinks, as she realises what my expression means. "Here, coffee?" she waves a hand around, indicating the shop we're sitting in.

"Yes."

"I... didn't think that you took other people here." A note of something that might almost be jealousy enters her voice.

"I don't!" I sigh, and try to explain what had been going through my mind. "I just needed somewhere to meet her. And I could hardly use a club, could I?"

Celia snorts, cutting the tension. "Not after all the rubbishing you'd been giving the Factor, no. So you met her here and..."

"A good time was had by all. Then we were just outside, saying goodbye..." My voice trails off, remembering.

A look of frustration crosses Celia's face and she opens her mouth, so I swiftly continue.

"She just looked so damn kissable in the light from the shop that I couldn't resist indulging. It was nice." I try to shrug casually, and probably fail. Giving up the pretence I hide my head in my hands. "And then, as I pulled away, I saw what I swore was a scared look off her."

"Really?" Celia looks a little taken aback. "You managed to get things that badly wrong?"

"So I thought." There's more I could add there, more that I've managed to put together since then, despite the best of Emma's evasion, but I don't. It's not mine to tell. "But she kissed me back. Hard." A smile drifts across my face which I'm fairly sure is smug. "I was right. She **is** very kissable."

"So, come on, what are the juicy details," Celia asks eagerly. She's always been big on sharing.

My face flames and I look down as I remember certain of said details. "No!"

"That good, huh?" She's enjoying this far too much. I'm usually far harder to embarrass.

"Pretty much," I have to reply. Say what you like about Emma liking to distract me with sex, she's very good at it.

"That was entirely too smug a tone of voice, young woman."

Composed again, I look her in the eyes. "Trust me, I've got good reason to be."

She shook her head and heaved an exaggerated sigh, leaning back in her seat. "How come you manage to pick up a better prospect on my evenings out than I do?"

"You're not exactly in the Factor looking for prospects, are you?"

She thinks a moment, then flashes a grin and shrugs. "True enough. So, about that missed coffee date... Do I take it that your days of going on the prowl for stress relief are no more? Because it sounded like business as usual when you phoned me that night."

I wince. "Um. Something like that."

* * *

The beat of the music vibrated within me. It should have been my hunting music, my signal to finish my drink and start the prowl. I needed to dance, to seduce, to complete the ritual.

But tonight I just wasn't feeling it.

"Are you going to stare at your drink all night, sir knight," came a familiar voice from behind me. I turned around to see a familiar blonde figure smirking at me. "Or are you actually planning on doing something so radical as drinking it?"

I laughed, as much at the chance to get my mind off my current situation as at the banter. Eileen had been one of the best things to happen to me here, someone I had actually managed to connect with as a friend after sleeping with them. A friend when outside the club, anyway. Usually. "I'll get back to you on that, princess."

"Now I know something's wrong. I got a laugh out of you." I raised an eyebrow and she shrugged. "No offense, sweetie, but you're usually a little too focussed for humour on the nights I see you here."

"I'm not entirely sure," I lied. I knew exactly what the problem was, and it was a blonde not currently present. But she belonged to the world outside the club, and I did my best to seal her away. I couldn't see her when I was like this. I knew what would happen, what my little rituals were when I was in this mode.

I liked her too much to lose her.

And the loss was a crucial key, a curtailment, a severing of possibilities, what might have been. Had been since, well, Amanda.

"Well, since you don't seem interested in getting out there just at the moment, fancy a dance until you figure out what you do want?" Eileen drawled.

I blinked and smiled. "I accept your offer, kind lady," I said getting to my feet and sketching a bow. "As long as Di won't refuse to serve me if I do."

She rolled her eyes. "She doesn't have any say over who I do or don't dance with."

That wasn't exactly a no. Ah well, I didn't need to have any more drinks tonight anyway. I smiled at Eileen. "Let's do it then."

Eileen dragged me onto the floor and her energy infected me. This was what I needed at the moment, some time to just not think, to seal the world away and just **move**.

I was lucky to have such a friend here, where I'd never really looked for her to be one.

A whirl showed me Di casting a dark glance in our direction.

I was lucky even if I rather suspected ulterior motives from my blonde companion. And I wasn't that worried about Di. If her and Eileen's history had taught me anything, it was that tomorrow was **always** another day.

"That was fun," Eileen panted when we finally reached a sweaty, breathless stop. "Figured out what you want yet?"

I closed my eyes, and let myself focus inside.

Really, there was only one response. Whatever Emma's thoughts on our relationship were, I was at a point where I just wasn't interested in anyone else.

Maybe tonight would kill our relationship dead. Or maybe another miracle like with Eileen could occur, and we could at least salvage a friendship.

I didn't hope for anything else.

Boxing the thought away, I smiled at Eileen. "Yeah. I'm bowing out tonight."

"Truly, 'tis a time of wonders."

"See you maybe this weekend?"

Her expression was pure mischief. "If Di has forgiven us both."

Had their relationship (at least in Eileen's mind) changed **already**? There were some things too confusing even for me. I was at least half convinced that their so called relationship was just a long running joke they were playing on me and their other friends.

The fact that I considered this a viable possibility went a long way to explaining why I was friends with her.

I waved a goodbye and headed off outside. The night wind was chill against my skin, driving away the heat of the club as my feet slowed and, finally stopped. I stood there in the middle of the pavement, the moment stretching before me. It felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff.

Tonight could be the last time I allowed myself to see Emma.

I closed my eyes, blinked away a little blurriness of vision, retrieved my phone and took a metaphorical step forward.

No time for anything else. I could feel the beast beginning to stir under my skin before I even touched a button, need, desire taking over.

"Yes, darling?"

I almost growled at the sound of her voice.

"Emma, I need to see you."

* * *

"Did you tell her that she wasn't precisely your first stop?" Celia asks, looking far too amused for my good.

"The subject hasn't exactly come up, no." Concentrating on my coffee seems easier right now than meeting Celia's eyes.

"So you have seen her since."

Not precisely a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."

"Let me guess, you haven't told her what that means either." I sneak a glance upwards just in time to see her roll her eyes at me. "Typical. You're clearly crazy about her, but, no, you wouldn't **think** of mentioning that to her."

"Quite apart from the fact that she seems to be able to read me with quite frankly disturbing ease at times..."

"Really?" Celia interrupts, giving me a look combining disbelief and deep amusement. "Someone who can read Emily the Inscrutable?"

"She even managed to figure out I was a profiler without me saying anything," I say a little grumpily.

"Serves you right. Now you know how the rest of us feel," she says unsympathetically, holding the stern expression for maybe half a second before dissolving into a fit of giggles. It's just as well I don't come here for the sympathy. "Do you think that **you'd** have been able to do that?"

"Yes!" I reply automatically. "Probably," I'm forced to add, in the spirit of honesty. I remember spending that night racking my brains, wondering what slips I'd made. I'm still not entirely certain. It's hard to spot the little mistakes from the inside.

"So, what is she? Another profiler?"

"An international woman of mystery, apparently," I say dryly. Teacher and mutant too, but I wasn't going to share that even with Celia at the moment.

"And you haven't tried to find out more?" she asks sceptically.

"I'm working on it."

"You'll have to let me know the scoop."

I decide to ignore that. "Anyway, as I was saying, despite the fact that I haven't told her everything that's been going through my mind, I think she has some idea of how I feel about her."

"Really?" She arches an eyebrow. "What did you do? Stay the night around her place?"

If I were a lesser woman, I might blush. "Well, yes..."

She blinks. "Really?" She narrows her eyes. "There's more?"

"I invited her back to my place the morning after... the morning I was due to meet you."

"You did what?" She looks a little stunned. "Hey... you stayed the night **then**? After your blow out?"

 **Now** I blush as I nod. "She crosses my boundaries," I sigh, trying not to think of the impending BAU dinner.

"And you invited her home," she says flatly. It's the second thing that used to be just ours that I've shared with Emma.

"Yes," I say softly, and then I have to laugh. "You should have seen her face when I invited her."

"Really?" she asks a little reservedly.

I mug an imitation.

The tension in her shoulders disappears as she giggles. "Okay, really."

"So, I'm fairly certain that she knows what it means to me."

"And I assume you're still making love, fucking, doing the horizontal tango, making the two backed beast..."

"Yes," I cut her off. She's capable of going on like that for quite some time if I don't stop her.

"So, **why** isn't she your girlfriend?" she asks in a voice that let's me know in no uncertain terms that I better not tell her that the problem was my hangups.

"It's not me." I receive a look. "Really. There's... well, there's a few problems. Mainly it's that she's repeatedly said that she doesn't want a relationship."

"I'm take it by your wording that it isn't quite that simple."

I shrug. "I can't really talk about it." And it's not until then that I realise how much I want to. Being there for Emma over the last few days has been draining my emotional reserves. I haven't had any downtime, any place where I could escape, discharge.

I'd really like to be able to talk it out with Celia. But I can't. Emma wouldn't want me to. I don't think that she could let me at the moment. Just going to a counsellor has been almost a step too far for her.

Emma doesn't need to worry about me as well. So I'll just lock it away inside and bleed in my own time.

"But you're not just going to leave at that." Celia's voice is definite.

And I don't want to, I decide. For the first time in years, I really don't want to.

"No."

But it's a risk, a horrific risk, letting a woman in who hasn't even agreed that she wants to be there. All unspoken evidence to the contrary.

She leans towards me. "So, you have a plan."

I think. "It's a bit up in the air at the moment. But I can improvise."

If it goes wrong... I don't want to even think about that.

But I will survive. I'm too stubborn not to.

"Good." She sips her coffee. "I expect to have regular status updates."

It's times like this that you can tell what she does for a living. "Yes, ma'am."

"And set up a meeting for me with your girlfriend."

I choke at the thought of the two of them in one place. Either they'd really get on well, or they really, really wouldn't.

Whichever way it went, I suspect that it'd be bad for me.

"Maybe when we're actually in a relationship," I mutter.

She eyes me. "Why would I want to wait **that** long? I'd like to vet her before this gets any further."

Oh, great.

"This is revenge for your last boyfriend, isn't it?"

"Last **four** boyfriends, please."

"I was right about them all, though."

"I'd call Cory more provoked than predicted," she says archly.

"Eh," I shrug. "I was right about the temper. Are you honestly saying that you wouldn't have caused him to lose it sooner or later?"

"Maybe," she concedes.

"And I still maintain that Rodrigo was a keeper." I smile slightly. "Far too good for you."

"If you weren't so utterly gay, I'd have been worried about you stealing him. And I'm still going to take this rare opportunity for revenge."

I throw up my hands. "Fine. Let me know when you're free. I'll see when we can make it." And, if need be, I can always claim BAU business.

The look in her eyes tells me she knows exactly what is going through my mind.

I may be doomed, but I'm going to go down fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to nonpresence of LJ for looking this over and helping to improve it.
> 
> The flashback takes place just before the sex scene in Need/Desire, part 4 of Faces


	5. Hypothetically

The last hundred feet to the restaurant are definitely the hardest.

I don't mix work and not-work. It's one of my rules, one of the ways I survive. Emma already crosses enough boundaries with me. Bringing her into my work world just feels like a recipe for disaster, on a personal scale. It doesn't help that my profile of Emma throws up far too convincing scenarios as to what might happen on an evening with the team. Especially when combined with Morgan, curse him.

Maybe he's been stricken suddenly ill?

I doubt that I'm that lucky.

I may have been dreading this ever since the idea was broached. But I locked that fear up into a little box and didn't let it out.

It's not as though it would do any good to worry about it before. Not that the pointlessness of worrying is stopping me now.

So here I am, a hundred feet away, and it feels like the path to the restaurant is up a steep incline, like there is a palpable force pushing me away. I want to stop, to make my excuses, to leave.

I won't, of course, but I'd like to.

Caught up in my own internal psychodrama, I almost, but not quite, jump as I feel one arm quite determinedly taken by a certain blonde. I look askance at her.

"My public awaits. Not to mention all kinds of juicy gossip about you." She smirks at me, clearly already plotting.

Weirdly, this makes me feel better. This is a game I know how to play.

The doors are just in front of me now. I'm tugged through, and suddenly it's like I'm in freefall. Maybe a little disoriented, a little off balance, but I'm in motion and there's nothing to stop me. Nothing at all.

Emma strides into the room like a queen, like a conqueror, letting me trail behind her as part of her retinue. She pauses just within the threshold, surveying the restaurant and everything in it as if it has failed some ineffable test. Only then does she resettle her hold on my arm and lead me over to the table. A waiter is politely waved away as we make our grand approach. (In her typically confident way, she doesn't even bother to check that she's heading for the right table. It would totally serve her right if she's guessed wrong, but of course she hasn't.)

And so we set the tone for the evening. We are **definitely** going to have words about this later. For what good that will do.

As we approach, I can see that everyone else is already here. We are, despite my best efforts, what Emma terms 'fashionably late'. She has a way of turning everything into a dominance game, and this is no exception. Just like the way she took my arm. And I bet that none of this is going unnoted.

I find myself cataloguing their reactions out of habit. Hotch is typically understated, any tells concealed behind a mask of polite interest. Maybe there's a slight quirk to one eyebrow, but maybe there isn't. Rossi nods a greeting, his expression open, friendly and giving absolutely nothing away. Reid has that small, shy smile he often wears when meeting new people socially, but his eyes flick back and forth between us and I know he's in analytical mode, trying to work out how we fit together. His gaze makes me even more acutely aware of our body language, of the way she's holding my arm, but there's nothing I can do about it right now. Morgan's gaze is frankly appreciative. Whatever else he might be thinking, it's locked away behind his easy smile and sparkling eyes. Garcia looks surprised, even startled; her eyes wide and her mouth falling open before she collects herself. And as for JJ...

Her gaze scalds me from across the room. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and then her expression is wiped away as if it had never been, leaving nothing but polite interest in its place. Despite myself, my stomach twists uneasily. I expected this, or something like it, but even so the intensity of her reaction takes me by surprise. We need to talk, she and I. But not here and not now.

I have more immediate problems to deal with. Time to make the introductions. I open my mouth to speak, but Emma -- curse the wench -- beats me to it.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. You must be the fine people of the BAU. I've heard so much about you." Is that a smirk? Is she smirking? Of course she's smirking. "I'm Emma Winthrop." After bestowing a regal smile upon one and all, she turns to me expectantly.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes at her, I obligingly name my colleagues one by one. I can't help but notice that I seem to be the only one who isn't here alone. Funny, that. It's almost as if this dinner was a thinly veiled excuse for the team to get together and play 'let's interrogate Emily and her special friend'. Maybe the knowing glances and subtle insinuations in their responses are just my imagination, but even so, I can't stop myself from finishing the introductions with: "Everyone, this is my friend Emma." At least I manage not to emphasise the word 'friend'.

"Charmed." Favouring them with another flash of her brilliant white teeth, she takes a step towards one of the vacant seats, but makes no move to pull it out and sit down. Surely she's not expecting...? Even as the thought forms in my head, she flicks a glance in my direction, confirming my suspicion.

Well, that's just not going to happen.

Completely ignoring the implicit demand, I pull out my own chair and sit down, leaving Little Miss Imperious to fend for herself. A long moment passes, but then I hear the scrape of wood on tile. So, the Empress can deign move a chair after all.

I'm almost surprised she didn't summon a waiter to -

"Please, allow me."

Dammit, Morgan!

"Why thank you." Gracefully, she lowers herself into the seat next to mine, 'accidentally' brushing her leg against mine as she does so. If I were anyone else, I would almost certainly be gritting my teeth right now. As it is, I don't react in the slightest. For her part, Emma is smiling up at Morgan, ostensibly focusing all her attention on him. "It's so wonderful to meet someone with good manners."

Subtle, Emma. Really subtle.

Although, considering how blatant she can be when she puts her mind to it, that actually was quite subtle for her.

Morgan grins back at her as he reseats himself at the table. "My pleasure."

Oh, don't encourage her.

Fortunately -- and somewhat surprisingly -- she doesn't immediately pounce on the straight line. Maybe she's actually going to behave for the rest of the evening. Or, maybe she's just trying to lull me into a false sense of security before doing something truly outrageous.

It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

On that note -- as if by coincidence -- I become aware of a whispered conversation taking place to my left. Reid and Garcia are obviously trying to be quiet, but whispers can carry across a dinner table surprisingly well. Especially if no one else is talking.

"I don't **know** , Reid. I've never met her before either." Garcia sounds a little frazzled. I know the feeling.

"She did say 'friend', though, didn't she?"

"Yes, that's what she said."

"But their body language would suggest..." Mercifully, Reid breaks off mid-sentence, frowning as Garcia gesticulates wildly at him. I shoot him a Look, uncertain how much of his current obliviousness is real and how much is him trying to provoke a reaction from me. Not that he can't be socially clueless at times, but I know for sure that he sometimes does it deliberately. Obliviousness can be a very effective shield. Or a sword.

At the moment, Reid is looking confusedly at Garcia. "What?" he asks.

Before she can answer, Hotch clears his throat, the sound drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

"Now that we're all here, I suggest we think about ordering." He gestures at the menus before us, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he turns his gaze to Emma. "The food here is very good. I'd be happy to recommend something if you like."

"Thank you," she says politely, "but I think I'll be fine." And, although she's still looking at Hotch, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that her next words are meant for me. "I always know exactly what I want."

Oh god.

Hotch... actually blinks. Even through the rising mortification, there's a part of my mind that is raising a metaphorical glass to Emma for **that** achievement. Some of us have been trying for years without even that much. I get the feeling he isn't used to women like her.

But then, I'm not sure there are any other women like Emma. And that's probably for the best.

As if she knows exactly what I'm thinking, she turns to smile archly at me.

"I bet I know what you want, too."

Only force of habit stops me from freezing like a deer in headlights. Unfortunately, all the composure in the world can't help me come up with a coherent response.

"Huh?" is the best I can manage.

She taps her open menu, the mischievous glint in her eyes belying the innocence of her next words. "If I recall correctly, the chef here does a superb linguini."

"Maybe I'll try that, then." Seizing the apparent reprieve with both hands, I focus on my own menu as if I'm actually interested in food right now.

This is going to be a long, long evening.

 

"So, there I was, debating whether to take my life in my hands and try to approach the coffee machine."

It's funny: Morgan's little exaggerations always seem much more amusing when they're not about me.

Emma, the treacherous viper, laughs delightedly, lightly touching Morgan on the arm. "I can imagine," she says sympathetically. "She can be quite..." Briefly, her eyes meet mine, amusement sparkling in their depths, before she looks back to the Judas at her side. "Formidable."

"Heh. That's a good way of putting it. She was stomping around like she was just waiting for an excuse to rip someone's heart out with her bare hands."

"I was not!" I'd told myself wasn't going to get involved in this, but there's no way I can let him get away with that kind of slander. "Morgan, you're full of crap."

"Darling, that's not a nice thing to say to your charming colleague," Emma purrs. Morgan preens at being called charming. The bastard. He really is a sucker for a pretty face. And impressive... other parts.

"Yeah, Prentiss." Morgan smirks, and I'm sure I hear a giggle from Garcia. "You'll hurt my feelings. And you know I'm a sensitive soul."

"Oh, I'll bet you are." she pitches her voice low, but not so low that we don't all hear it. And she doesn't even bother to conceal the rampant speculation in the words.

"Emma," I say, warningly.

"Yes, darling?" And now she's all innocence, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. I shake my head wordlessly. After all, what would I say?

"Oh, finish your story, Morgan." I don't concede with the best grace in the world, but I manage to scrape up a lopsided smile from somewhere.

Not needing to be told twice, he turns back to his rapt audience.

"Anyway, I made my decision and cautiously entered the danger zone..."

* * *

I hovered by the coffee machine, waiting for Morgan to get his ass in gear and head over here. I had the day's newspaper in front of me, but the words didn't really register in my consciousness. It was more for camouflage than anything else.

Come on, Morgan.

Naturally, because I was waiting, he took his sweet time. Not deliberately, I was reasonably sure, but simply because that's how life works. He headed back to his desk to mess around with something or other. He stopped to flirt with a secretary and a passing agent or two; to exchange chit chat with a couple of the guys. He even stuck his head into JJ's office for a couple of minutes. By the time he finally ambled over in my direction, I was just about fit to be tied.

Not that anyone would know it to look at me, of course.

"Morning, Prentiss," he greeted me cheerfully.

"Good morning." I nodded cordially. "How's it going?"

"Pretty good, thanks. You?"

"Yeah, pretty good." I waited while he poured his coffee, timing my next words so they seem casual; an afterthought. Nothing of any great significance. "Actually, while you're here: mind if I pick your brains about something?"

He leaned back against the counter, raising his eyebrows enquiringly. "Shoot."

"Hypothetically," I began, sticking to the angle I'd rehearsed.

Morgan had that smirk on his face; the one that said he wasn't fooled in the slightest by the pretense, but was willing to go along with it for the moment.

"Hypothetically," he repeated, gesturing for me to continue.

"The situation is this: it's Saturday night and our subject is out playing wingman to a friend. She is emphatically not looking to hook up herself at the moment. Her only objective is to watch out for her friend. Anyway, at some point during the course of the evening, she actually does end up meeting a guy." Guy in the non-gendered, generic individual sense of course. If Morgan wanted to read more into it than that, then that was his own look out. "They seem to hit it off, and end up chatting for a while."

"Chatting, huh?" I could practically hear the quotation marks around the word.

"Yes, chatting. It may surprise you to know, Morgan, but some people actually spend time on the verbal before diving straight into the physical." If Celia was here, she would have laughed hysterically at that little hypocrisy. Not that she would have room to talk.

Now he grinned. "I've never had any complaints about my... verbal skills."

I rolled my eyes, but I supposed I couldn't really blame him for leaping on the straight line. I did hand it to him, after all.

"At the end of the evening, the guy gives her his phone number."

"Unsolicited?"

"Yep. And he doesn't ask for hers in return."

"Does she offer it?"

"No."

"The ball's entirely in her court, then."

"That's about the size of it."

He tilted his head, looking at me thoughtfully. "Seems fairly straightforward to me. You said they hit it off, and he wouldn't give her his number if he didn't want her to use it. She should call him."

"But there's a complication."

"Figured there'd have to be."

"Say the place they met was a real dive; the kind of place in which our subject wouldn't normally be seen dead. The kind of place that would generally mean an automatic rejection." It wasn't the real problem, but I couldn't help my habit of laying false trails. On the rare occasions I needed one, Morgan was a good sounding board even if I didn't exactly give him all the facts.

"I'd say maybe she shouldn't be so judgemental. A place doesn't have to be high class to have a good vibe."

"Say it was the S X Factor." Okay, maybe that was a mark against Emma. But the real issue was: did I want to see her again? She was amusing, witty (albeit in a somewhat cruel way) and obviously intelligent. All plus points. But there was a spark there, and it seemed to be reciprocated. And that had been a signal for me to just run for several years.

And, really, that was what I should do now.

So why hadn't I already put her out of my mind?

His eyebrows shot up. "Damn!" He gave a theatrical shudder. "That place is nasty."

"Yeah." Even as I nodded in agreement, I made a note of the fact that Morgan had obviously been there. Although I'd lay odds that he hadn't been more than once.

"In that case, I'd say find a friend with better taste, or stage an intervention ASAP."

Except I would never ditch Celia, and I doubted yet another intervention would succeed where all the others had failed. Celia **liked** cheap and nasty for some unknown reason. Only loyalty to my best friend in all the world helped me scrape together the lackluster glower I turned on Morgan. "Can we get back to the question?" Facts were tumbling inside my head, but they hadn't resolved just yet.

He sighed. "So, this hypothetical woman hypothetically gets dragged out to the S X Factor" -- another dramatic shudder -- "where, against all odds, she meets someone she can actually hold a conversation with. You want to know if she should see him again." He drummed his fingers on the worktop thoughtfully. "I have a question for you. If they'd met somewhere else -- anywhere else -- would she call him?"

And suddenly, the facts slid into place, made sense, became an answer. Yes. Yes, I would. Emma Winthrop intrigued me, and I'd like to see her again under better circumstances.

Maybe, later, I could plead temporary insanity, but for now the decision just felt right.

Of course, my response to Morgan was somewhat more cautious. "Let's say yes, on balance."

"Then that's your answer. She should see the guy again." He shrugged. "Either it'll work out or it won't, but at least then she'll know one way or the other. And if it doesn't work out, she's lost nothing but time." His eyebrows lifted enquiringly. "Does that help?"

"It does, thanks." I smiled at him as I got some more coffee. "You make a good sounding board."

He grinned back at me. "Anytime, Prentiss." His smile took on a sly edge. "So, you picked up someone in the S X Factor, huh?"

"Hypothetical, remember?"

"Uh huh."

Great. Why did I get the feeling that he wasn't going to let this go? That would be because I knew him. Oh well. I knew that was a risk when I approached him, but it was worth it for the lightness I felt, like a weight had been lifted from my mind. I was going to see her again.

And then... We would see what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Nonpresence of LJ for betaing.
> 
> The flashback takes place after the first meeting but shortly before Emma gets the text message in Saturday Night Snark (part 1 of Faces)


	6. Switch and Bait

"And you know what she said when I asked her how it went with that guy? She said: 'What guy?' Completely deadpan. Wouldn't give anything away."

I am in hell. There had obviously been a traffic accident on the way here. I had been killed and I am now in hell.

The only consolation I currently have is that Morgan probably has no idea quite how nightmarish I'm finding this. The crossing of boundaries between personal and professional is excruciating enough at the best of times, without Emma being here as well.

She shoots me a look, then smirks a little. "What **guy** , huh?" When that doesn't get a reaction, she adds "Honestly, I'm feeling distinctly insulted, darling."

That forces a laugh from me. "Well, I did tell Morgan it was a hypothetical question. It's not my fault if he drew certain conclusions." I take a sip of my drink and, thus fortified, I smirk back at her. "Besides, there's no way it could involve you. I mean, surely you'd never admit to being at such a declasse place, would you?"

Emma forbears to reply, so I count that as a win, and suddenly I'm feeling a little better. Now to get my revenge on the miscreant himself.

"But let's not make this evening about me," I purr. "After all, there's so much that I can tell you about Morgan, Emma."

Morgan has the sense to look mildly unnerved as Emma turns back towards him.

When you swim with sharks, Morgan...

"Really? Do tell." The smile on Emma's face is nothing short of predatory as she leans forward, expectantly.

Of course I oblige. After all, as I'm sure Morgan would ordinarily be the first to agree: turnabout is fair play.

 

"That isn't how it was at all," Morgan protests.

I smile sweetly at him. "Oh? Are you saying my facts are inaccurate?"

"Well..." He really wants to say yes, but he can't. Not honestly. Not where there are people present who might correct him, anyway. Instead, he compromises with: "You're giving entirely the wrong impression." He appeals to Emma, as if there's mercy to be had from that quarter. "That isn't me at all. Scout's honour."

"Were you a scout?" I ask, interestedly.

He shoots me a cautious glance. "Maybe."

Emma has that look on her face, like she's about to say something salacious, probably something about Morgan in shorts. Or how scouts are supposed to be ready for anything. Unfortunately, Garcia picks this moment to derail -- I mean, join -- the conversation. I suppose it was only a matter of time before she took pity on her main man.

"I bet you looked so **cute** in your little uniform." Or not. Garcia and I share a smirk. Emma rolls her eyes and forebears to comment. Well, I guess Garcia's interjection is a rescue after all. Of a sort, anyway.

"Are there pictures?" I wonder.

"I bet I could find 'em!" Garcia makes as if to pull out her laptop.

Morgan snorts. "Like I'd let anything like **that** get online. If it existed in the first place. Which it doesn't."

"Darn." Garcia pouts for a moment or two, then brightens. "I bet your mom would tell me. In fact, if I asked nicely, I bet she'd even send a few of them over. Y'know, for Morgan's bestest BAU buddies."

"Good idea." I let my amused smile shade towards evil. I don't **think** Garcia would go so far as to call Morgan's mother but, well, you never know. She did dig up that godawful goth picture of mine, after all.

Morgan sighs deeply, resting his head on his hands and looking up at Garcia with soulful eyes. "Really, Baby-Girl? You'd drag my mother into Prentiss' vendetta? My own mother? Seriously?"

I resist the urge to say, mulishly: 'he started it'. Instead I just roll my eyes at the way he's hamming it up, leaving it up to Garcia to respond.

"Awww, Morgan." She thwacks him lightly on one arm. "You know I can't resist the puppy-dog eyes."

"Does that mean you're going to drop this?"

I idly wonder what proportion of Morgan's conquests said yes on the strength of those eyes. They're very expressive, when he wants them to be. I know before Garcia's sigh that he's managed to prevent -- or at least postpone -- the Doom of the Childhood Photos.

"For now," she grouses, holding the glower for all of one second before the dimples break out again. "But you have to stop hogging Emily and Emma!"

"You got it, Dollface." He shows the palms of his hands in mock-surrender.

"I wasn't aware that I was a commodity to be hoarded," Emma observes lightly.

"Of course you are!" Emma is treated to the full force of the Garcia smile. "It's so fantastic to actually meet one of Emily's, ah, friends. She never tells us **anything** about her life outside the BAU. Apart from her mother, I think you're the only person **not** connected to her work life I've ever met. And I only met her mother because of a case!"

"Emily is a very private person," Emma observes, her tone drier than the desert. I can't help a flash of relief at her response. She does take offense at the darndest things sometimes, and I want... Dammit, I want my colleagues to like her, and vice-versa. I want this to go well.

Even if that means suffering through a few more jokes at my expense.

"You can say that again!" Garcia's enthusiastic agreement draws an amused smile from Emma. And Morgan. And Reid. And... Well, let's face it, this end of the table **is** tonight's entertainment. "If I wasn't the doyenne of data, we wouldn't even know her **birthday**."

"When is that again?" Emma slips the question in so casually she almost gets away with it, Garcia innocently starting to answer her.

"That's cheating, Emma!"

Oh, great. Now they're all looking at me. Damn their eyes.

Her royal smugness favours me with one of **those** smiles. "Oh? I think not. The terms of the bet don't forbid me from asking questions."

"But..." I bite off my words before I can finish the rest of that sentence. When we made that stupid bet, I wasn't expecting to be introducing her to my work colleagues.

Morgan raises his eyebrows at both of us. "You made a bet about Emily's birthday?" His tone invites further explanation.

"She wouldn't tell me when it is," Emma pouts. "Even though I asked **ever** so nicely." Against my will, an unseen shiver runs through me, my traitor flesh remembering all too well where that expression, that tone of voice tends to lead with us. No, dammit, this isn't the time or the place. As I struggle to fend off this out of context problem, the agent of it is still speaking. "I said I'd find out for myself; she said I wouldn't be able to." A languid shrug. "And so: a bet."

"So... What are the terms?" Reid leans forward, interested. Not surprising for a Vegas kid, I suppose.

Apparently deciding to indulge his curiosity, Emma favours him with a smile. "I have to find out her full birthdate by the end of the month. I can't go through her diary or calendar and I can't ask her mother. I'm also not allowed to trick or persuade her into telling me herself. Which I think is rather unfair, but what's a girl to do?"

"That's it?"

"That's it, darling. There's nothing there forbidding me from asking **friends** , or from telling them about the bet."

An oversight on my part, I admit. I suppose I was rather distracted at the time. Not that I'd admit that to **her** , and certainly not in the present company.

Morgan laughs. "Sounds like she's got you dead to rights, Prentiss."

I muster up a rueful smile. "It certainly looks that way."

"So...." Emma drawls the word, drawing it out until everyone is looking at her. When she has their attention, she favours them with a brilliant smile. "When was Emily Prentiss born?"

Everyone draws breath to answer her question -- gee, thanks guys -- but, surprisingly, Hotch is the one who speaks first. I hadn't even realised he was paying attention. He, Rossi and JJ had looked like they were deep in conversation about something-or-other; almost certainly work-related. I suppose I should have known better: Hotch **always** pays attention.

"Thank you, Agent Hotchner."

"You're welcome." His eyes crinkle a little at the corners, no doubt in amusement at my expense. "And please call me Hotch. Everyone does."

Yeah, thanks a lot, Hotch. Thanks for nothing. Still, I can't really complain about Emma taking advantage of an opportunity I never predicted, no matter how much a part of me would like to. She did play by the rules I set, after all. So I yield with reasonably good grace when Emma repeats the date back to me, giving her a mock salute in honour of her victory.

"Looks like you win the bet," I proclaim. And if my tone is a little dry, well, I don't think anyone would blame me. Least of all her.

"I knew I would."

Why does that not surprise me.

"So, what do you win?" Morgan wants to know.

The flick of her eyes in my direction is almost imperceptible, but I know it's not accidental. I'm fairly certain my colleagues see it, leaving me to wonder what they think it means. Her expression, however, is utterly demure.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly discuss the details of a negotiation in progress, darling. That would be unprofessional."

Even as part of me curses the infernal woman, I can't help but give her a small smile. Emma returns it -- not a smirk, just a smile -- and for the first time since we entered the restaurant, I start to think we might actually pull this off.

"Awwww!" The noise Garcia makes is so high-pitched that I half-expect the wine glasses to shatter. "You guys make **such** a cute couple."

Emma's smile disappears. "We're **not** a couple."

Uh oh.

I can almost hear my colleagues start to profile **that** statement. It's nothing obvious, but I sneak a peek at Emma anyway. She can be uncannily perceptive at times, usually the most inconvenient ones. From the look in her eyes, this is one of those occasions. The smile is back, but this time it's fake, brittle.

If the profilers on the team had but one face, I'd be **so** tempted to slap it just at this moment.

I need to head this off **now**.

I turn to Garcia, shaking my head, forcing my tone to lightness and keeping the smile in place with an effort. "You **always** seem quick to jump to conclusions about me and coupledom. I remember how you reacted that day last week when I was late to the office." I use the only bait I have to hand: myself.

Let's face it, as far as this group is concerned, any points they can score off me are worth far more in the Game than any they can score off a friend, however close we might be.

"But you did look like you were walking on air..."

I note with relief that my colleagues are starting to focus on me again, the prospect of juicy gossip about such out of character behaviour luring them away from Emma. I sense, rather than see, her start to relax besides me.

I've done it. She's safe.

Now if only someone would save me...

* * *

I was more or less at the F.B.I. parking lot before the euphoria from waking up with Emma, not to mention the night before, faded. I very carefully brought the car to a stop and then gripped the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles went white.

What the hell had I been thinking?

The only answer I could come up with was that I hadn't been. At all.

I briefly considered having a quick meltdown here in the lot. Upon further consideration, it probably wouldn't look good on my yearly appraisal. Besides, I was late enough for work as it was.

Maybe the paperwork from our last case would distract me. It had to be good for something beyond deforestation and carbon capture.

The hell of it was, I found myself thinking as I waited for the elevator, that on the face of it, having sex with Emma last night hadn't actually been that bad an idea. By sex I did of course mean fucking her, I clarified as the door slid open and I stepped inside. After all, for me sex was a release of tension, both physical and emotional. The emotional part, of course, being the most important.

No, last night's exercise was a success. There had just been... complications.

All her protestations aside, things between us seemed to be veering dangerously close to relationship territory. I knew what that meant, and I didn't want to go there.

I carved into myself jagged reminders of what that kind of entanglement meant. What the last one had meant.

That alone should be enough for anyone, but I found myself continuing anyway, chewing over what had happened afterwards.

What had happened, of course, was that I hadn't taken into account how damn good Emma was at sex. Of course she'd want to reciprocate. And I should have known how vulnerable that would leave me.

Not that I'd been in this position for a good long time. Nowhere near **this** careless.

And, after **that** , literally sleeping with her seemed almost excusable.

There was a ping and here I was at my floor. Marvellous.

I looked around cautiously. No one **seemed** to be paying me any more attention than usual. Maybe my lateness had gone unnoticed, just chalked up to the fact that we'd gotten back a little later than usual after closing the case.

Or maybe they thought that after what had happened, me being a little late was entirely excusable. Generally I didn't like to give the impression that **anything** could phase me, but, at the moment, I'd take what I could get.

People are so much easier to deceive if they think they already know the truth. It can be a little harder with profilers, but all that means is that we tend to play the percentages and look for the things that don't fit.

In some ways, it can be even easier to lie to us if you know what the percentages are ahead of time.

At this point I realised that I'd logged onto my computer and had started moving towards the coffee machine on instinct. I gave an internal shrug and kept on moving. It's always best not to do anything unusual like, say, stop mid-meander and go back to my desk. Anyway, a little more coffee surely couldn't hurt.

"Good morning," came Garcia's dulcet tones, breaking through the fog of my introspection. She had, apparently, also made the trek to the great provider of caffeine and was standing there, cup in hand.

I mustered up a smile, my mind still on the problem of Emma, wheels spinning, trying to avoid the elephant in the room.

"Morning," I replied.

"Hey, you're in late today," she trilled, smiling at me.

And, like that, I was unable to avoid the subject of what I'd done this morning, what I'd said.

 **Where** I had invited Emma.

Oh god.

What **had** I been thinking?

"Yeah," I agreed, doing my best to show nothing of what was going through my mind. I just kept the smile, the mask, on my face.

Garcia put down the carafe and clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes widening. "Oh. My. God! Emz, did you have a good time last night?"

Maybe I had overdone the smile a little.

Still - "I guess you could call it that," I said, my smile starting to feel a bit more natural. Because it had been, truly. Weirdly.

It didn't stop my hand from itching, from wanting to pick up my phone and cancel tonight's plans. And any other plans we might make in the immediate future. Maybe just take a break from each other for a while.

Until I just felt like me again, until my world started making sense again.

I had opened up to her way, way too far, and now I was feeling raw, exposed and like I wanted to hide.

Nothing good had ever come of leaving myself as vulnerable as this.

"Wow, I don't think I've ever seen you like this," Garcia said wonderingly, as she searched my face. My heart almost stopped before I registered her tone and realised that she really didn't know what was going through my mind. "Is it serious? Who is he?" she asked, then continued without allowing me to answer. "No, don't tell me. Tall, dark and handsome?"

"Not exactly," I answered honestly. Did I really want to just break things off now?

But who could I ask? I knew what Celia would say already. And I couldn't open up to anyone here.

It didn't feel like I had nearly enough time before this evening would arrive, before I'd have to make a decision.

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think so. It's not someone I met through work."

Why the hell had I invited her to my apartment? And why did she have to look so pleased at the prospect?

It would be a lot easier if I didn't have to risk disappointing her. Especially after last night.

And that just led me round in a circle.

"Um, I think you might want to stop pouring any moment now." Garcia's words registered just as the coffee overflowed from the mug I'd been filling, unseeing, spilling over the countertop and cascading onto the floor.

"Shit!" I scalded my hand as I tried to prevent further disaster, flailing around in search of something to wipe up the steadily spreading pool. Garcia, evidently taking pity on me, handed me a wad of paper towels and started mopping up the mess on the counter-top. "Thanks," I muttered, bending to deal with the small lake of coffee on the floor. Well, maybe 'lake' was an exaggeration. It was a puddle at best, and not a particularly large one. Fortunately, it didn't take that long to clean up.

Dumping the sodden paper towels in the bin, I turned around to find Garcia staring at me, wide-eyed. Her eyebrows were raised so high that they practically merged with her hair. She pointed at me with one fuschia-tipped finger.

"Agent Emily Prentiss," she said in a tone that was equal parts shock, horror and admiration. "Is that a **hickey** on your neck?"

I glanced down. My shirt collar had gotten a little askew during all the bending and mopping, revealing a neat little bruise at the base of my neck. If you looked close enough, there were probably neat little teeth marks, too.

Emma did like to bite.

I thought briefly, idly, of trying to trace Emma through her dental records, but the phantom sensation of teeth on my skin distracted me. Oh, treacherous flesh... It took some effort to drag my mind back to my current situation.

I tugged the neckline of my shirt back into place, and did my best to recover my elusive composure. My cheeks felt hot -- I only hoped they weren't flushed -- and it wasn't just from embarrassment.

I essayed a smirk in Garcia's direction. "Is **that** what you think it is?"

I had no idea what I was suggesting. And, from the looks of it, neither did she. Excellent. Distraction as planned.

I smoothly cut in as she was opening her mouth."I **could** tell you, but I'd hate to corrupt such an innocent little flower as yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must put on another pot of coffee."

Suiting the action to the words, I turned away and started fussing with the coffee machine. The sound of spluttering from behind me almost made up for me not being able to see the expression on Garcia's face.

"I'm not **that** innocent," she muttered.

I half-turned back to her, one eyebrow quirked enquiringly. "Oh? Now, **that** sounds like a story." Did she have a thought about what else it could be? I was always open to new ideas.

"Well, it isn't!" She glowered at me, starting to say something else.

I overrode her with: "Maybe I should talk to Kevin..."

"Don't you dare!" She wagged her finger at me. "And stop trying to change the subject! We were talking about you, not me!"

I would have continued winding her up, but she looked thoughtful again, studying my face intently. "You look happy," she said softly, a small smile quirking her lips.

I didn't quite know what to say to that. Was I happy? I'd thought I was, this morning. I'd been walking on air, this morning.

But now?

"Are you saying that I usually look miserable?" I replied, smiling at Garcia to make it clear I was only joking.

"No, but you don't usually look like this." She waved a hand vaguely in my general direction. "Whoever your mystery man is, he's obviously good for you." She hesitated a moment, then ploughed on, looking like she already knew the answer to her next question. "Any chance I can meet him?"

I liked Garcia. I really did. In many ways, she was the person I was probably closest to here nowadays. But...

"No, sorry" I replied equally softly, giving her an apologetic smile to soften the refusal. "You know what I'm like regarding home and work."

She looked disappointed for just a second, before grinning widely and hugging me hard. I managed to avoid stiffening just in time. I hated physical contact, but for her, just this once, I'd make an exception.

"Best of luck, Emz," she said, normal volume once again. "I guess I'll leave you to your coffee. You probably need it after your heavy night." With a waggle of her eyebrows and a cheery wave, she headed back to her lair.

Sadly, tonight was likely to be heavier.

I poured myself some coffee and took a sip, barely tasting it as I fought my panic down. It didn't belong here, not in this office. And, maybe, once it was in its box, I could think about this logically.

I walked slowly back to my desk, greeting people as I neared them or made eye contact, taking the hits as they made jokes at my expense. The jibes didn't matter. Even if they hadn't been friendly, they were sufficiently wide of the mark that they wouldn't cause anything more than a mild sting. What was important was the ritual. With every greeting and every response, I forced myself into a more normal mode of thought, locked the panic into an ever smaller box.

By the time I was back at my desk, I was feeling something that vaguely resembled normality. At least compared to the state in which I'd entered the building.

Time to think about this logically. Because, heaven knew, I'd been doing precious little of **that** lately.

Did I **want** to break things off with Emma? To walk away and never see her again? Or, best case scenario, to let our relationship (I couldn't help an internal wince at the term) turn into the kind of friendship I had with Eileen? Light, fluffy and, more importantly, nonthreatening.

My body moved on autopilot, sipping coffee, tapping keys, making sure that I looked busy as I worked through my current problem. I supposed I should feel guilty at devoting the processing power normally earmarked for work to personal stuff, but this was too important. Besides, I reasoned, I needed to sort this out now -- at least in my own mind -- if I was going to be at all productive for the rest of the day. Emma... unbalanced me, my carefully built walls slipping and sliding, letting things leak through the edges.

How could I rebuild them when I couldn't make myself decide where to draw the boundaries?

I thought about how she made me feel. I thought about the risks; the many ways in which things could go horribly, disastrously wrong. I thought about what at least a part of me had apparently decided when I invited her round to my home; my sanctuary.

And I thought that for better, for worse, I was already committed. I was already in freefall, and the best way to guarantee that I'd be hurt would be to have second thoughts now.

So. The invitation would stand. Tonight, Emma was going to visit me in my apartment. Unless she had second thoughts of her own, which would tell me something in and of itself.

I smiled inwardly, wryly, as I realised that, for all my metaphorical hand-wringing, I'd just effectively decided to do nothing. At least for the time being. I'd just let events proceed on their existing course, and re-evaluate when I had more information. In other words, 'wait and see'.

And, despite the residue of my internal yammering, I was surprisingly comfortable with that.

After all, however it turned out in the end, it could hardly be worse than what happened with Amanda.

As the tension left my body, I looked up to see Garcia smiling in my direction. I could practically hear the soundtrack playing in her head as she doubtless imagined me lost in a romantic haze. Imagined me to be in love.

I hid a smile of my own, and got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you to Nonpresence of LJ for betaing.
> 
> The flashback occurs twixt chapter 5 and 6 of Faces.


	7. Anticipation

"It was just so **cute**." Garcia beams joyously at her audience as she finishes her account of 'Prentiss in Love'. "I've never seen Emily so, so... discombobulated before!"

"I'm sorry I missed it."

Morgan is about as sympathetic as I would have expected. I roll my eyes at him, but say nothing: it would only encourage him. There's a general flurry of agreement with his sentiment, and then in the subsequent conversational lull, a single, sultry voice pipes up.

"Oh, I'm **sure** I can discombobulate her again."

I almost choke on my wine. Emma's voice is pure sex, sending a thrill right through me. I'm helpless to stop myself turning to face her, knowing even before I see her that she's doing that **thing** again. I swear she isn't sitting differently, hasn't unbuttoned or loosened any of her clothing, isn't doing anything nearly so crass as pushing her chest out (not that she needs to). In short, she's just sitting there. But, all of a sudden, it's like she's Aphrodite herself and I **want** her. The only thing stopping me from ripping her clothes off and ravishing her right there on the table is the fact that we're with my colleagues. And we're in a public place.

But, God help me, I want to.

Maybe her mutant ability is sex. It would explain **so** much.

But this isn't the time or the place. I meet her gaze -- ignoring the almost tangible snap and crackle of sparks between us as I do so -- and give her my best quelling look.

'Not here, Emma,' I want to say, but I don't. Not aloud. Please get the message. Whatever it is you're going to do, don't do it. Not here. Not with my colleagues present. Please.

Her smile widens in response, her eyes sparkling brilliantly, dangerously, like razor-edged sapphires. Achingly beautiful from a distance, but get too close and they'll cut you to ribbons. Just like she can, if the mood takes her.

The mood is nearly on her now. I can almost see it settling over her like a cloud. She's on the brink. We're on the brink. My walls shiver and tremble, conflicting wants jostling for my attention. I want to take her; make her scream in pleasure. I want to shake her 'till she rattles and demand to know what the hell she's playing at (even though I know, and it makes my heart ache for her). I want to hold her in my arms and smooth away the sharp edges and the brittleness.

The space between one heartbeat and the next seems to last a lifetime, thoughts flashing through my mind like lightning. It almost seems like Emma and I are the only people in the room, in the world, so I start a little when Morgan's voice breaks through our little bubble.

"Heh. I don't know about that, Emma. Prentiss' composure is legendary, after all. She's a tough nut to crack."

I swear silently. Don't challenge her, Morgan! Don't you realise what she...? Oh. Of course he does. He just thinks it's **funny**. He smirks at me, clearly amused at my predicament. At what he **thinks** is my predicament. He doesn't know there's something wrong. None of them do.

And I can't say a thing.

"Is she, now?"

Her gaze trails over me like fingers, like a caress. I suppress the urge to lean into it, into her; to close the distance between us. I should say something. I should do something. But in the end, it's hard enough just to do nothing at all.

How is she doing this? How can she do this to me?

How can she get under my skin like this?

"That sounds like a challenge to me."

A moment's grace as she turns to pin Morgan beneath the weight of her stare. I finally remember to breathe.

"Maybe it is." He still thinks this is a game, his voice amused; teasing. He doesn't know what the stakes are. "Maybe I don't think you can make Prentiss lose her cool."

"Challenge accepted." She nods once, then turns back to me.

"Don't I get a say in this?" My words are flippant, my tone light and amused despite my deep unease. All I have to do is let Morgan see my discomfort, and he'll back off. I know he will. And yet I still can't bring myself to break the habit of a lifetime.

I can't show weakness.

"Too late, darling," Emma breathes. "No going back now. Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

"This nonsense had better not get between me and my dessert," JJ cuts in acerbically. "I'm warning you, Morgan..."

I'm not certain, but I think she flicks a quick, unreadable glance in my direction. Is JJ, of all people, trying to run interference for me? Or maybe she just really, **really** wants her triple-chocolate-double-fudge-extra-cream-whatsit. Perhaps it's a little from column A, a little from column B.

"Hey, it's out of my hands."

Pleading innocence isn't going to save you, Morgan. Just you wait. I'm going to get you for this.

Assuming I survive this experience.

"Here's the dessert trolley now!" Garcia proclaims, brightly.

" **Perfect** ," purrs Emma.

Uh oh.

I know why she's doing this, of course. It's all about control. First Garcia inadvertently hits one of her triggers, and then the rest of the team simultaneously starts trying to get into her head. My best guess is that she's feeling vulnerable right now and, certainly for as long as I've known her, she always responds to that with aggression and dominance games. Sex tends to be her weapon of choice, just as it is here.

It's not even aimed at me, not really. I'm just a target of convenience.

That doesn't make this any easier.

She says very little as the course is served, only speaking up to demurely identify her own confection. I know better than to think of this as a reprieve. It's just the calm before the storm. The waiter's barely turned away before she begins.

"Oops." Her napkin flutters to the ground between us. "Excuse me, darling." Before I can say anything, she ducks down to retrieve the errant square of linen. I anticipate her fingers encircling my ankle; stroking their way up my calf as she slowly sits up again. The nip of her teeth, however, takes me completely by surprise. Somehow, I manage not to yelp aloud.

I didn't think she'd be quite that bold. Not just yet, anyway.

Apparently, I should have known better.

She settles back in her seat with perhaps a little more squirming than is strictly necessary, somehow ending up with her leg pressed up against mine. I am uncomfortably aware of her smooth skin, the play of the muscles beneath as she flexes her foot. I can't help but remember the feel of her legs wrapped around me. Or of kissing my way along their length. Or...

This isn't helping! Treacherous memories.

In the meantime, in the world outside my head, Emma picks up her fork. With a sidelong glance -- perhaps she wants to make sure I'm paying attention (which, of course, I am) -- she brings a morsel of cake to her lips.

"Mmm," she breathes softly, letting her eyelashes flutter in pleasure. My eyes are drawn to her mouth as she slowly withdraws the fork from the kiss of her full lips, swallowing with evident enjoyment. "Oh, that's good."

My mind's ear supplies echoes of the other times I've heard her say those words. I try to tune them out without much success.

I don't know what it is about her that almost steals my volition like this.

A couple more bites, more muffled exclamations of delight and enjoyment. Her bare foot strokes my calf -- I don't remember her kicking her shoe off -- her toes curling against my skin. She takes a sip from her glass, placing it back as precisely and carefully, as if she were a chessmaster moving a piece into check. The combination of sight and sensation stirs memories of one particular match, of exquisite torment cut short before the end game.

Now, of course, we're in a different game entirely, one where I am just a pawn. Or, the way she's using me, maybe a queen.

The comparison rouses anger in me. I'm not just a game piece, regardless of how I'm being used. But it isn't enough to free me from her spell, isn't enough to do any good at the moment.

Instead, I take refuge in my facade, one eyebrow quirking in a reasonable facsimile of amused ennui.

"I take it you're enjoying your dessert?" I ask, my tone deliberately dry.

"Yes, very much." She sighs again, then gives me a disapproving look. "But you haven't even **touched** yours. Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude not to finish your dinner?"

"She also told me not to rush my food. I was letting my main course settle."

Emma smiles slyly. "A wise woman, your mother. Sometimes it's... **good**... to take your time."

She did **not** just bring my mother into a sex joke.

She just brought my mother into a sex joke.

Oh god.

But she's not finished yet, continuing with:

"It builds..."

She pauses.

She takes another forkful of cake and eats it s-l-o-w-l-y, savouring every last crumb.

The silence lengthens. I don't think anyone's even breathing.

She taps the fork thoughtfully against her lips, extending her (dextrous, talented) tongue to catch a stray piece of chocolate that's threatening to fall, trailing it delicately against the tines for good measure before licking her lips.

She sighs, half-closing her eyes.

"...anticipation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Nonpresence of LJ for looking this over


	8. Messages without talking

  
  


 

  
Apparently we all remember to breathe at the exact same moment.

Damn her.

I have to resist the urge to touch my chin to make sure my jaw isn't hanging open.

It isn't, fortunately.

Licking her lips again, she leans forward a little -- 'coincidentally' giving me a perfect view of her cleavage -- and asks: "Do I have anything around my mouth, darling?"

She does, as it happens: a small smear of cream at one corner. On her it looks sexy, not messy. I wonder if it's deliberate.

"Yes," I say, a little abruptly, the desire to lean forward and kiss it away surging hot and powerful in my breast.

"Where?" she asks, innocently.

"Left corner."

"Here?" She dabs ineffectually at her lips, just missing the offending smear.

I can see where this is heading.

"Almost." I keep my hands firmly in my lap, well out of range.

"Here?" Somehow, she manages to overshoot in the other direction, again missing it completely. Well done, Emma.

We go round and round another couple of times -- she's good at this -- and, with a start, I suddenly realise that she's managed to drift closer without me noticing. Her lips are dangerously close to mine. I can feel her breath on my face, smell the sweetness of it. Any closer, and I'll be able to taste it. To taste her.

I **want** to taste her.

Leaning back a little, I raise a hand and point. "There."

" **Thank** you."

It takes control not to snatch my hand back out of her reach; to calmly settle it in my lap once more. I'm actually surprised that she lets me do so unchallenged. (Which, of course, is my mind's cue to remind me of all the things she **could** have done instead.)

No, she has something else in mind. Finally 'managing' to locate the sliver of cream marring her otherwise perfect lipstick, she wipes it away with her finger. Looking me directly in the eyes, she smiles in a way that makes me feel like a deer caught in headlights. Or faced with a sleek, hungry wolf.

"Wouldn't want to let this go to waste," she murmurs breathily. And then she proceeds to do things with her mouth that are probably illegal in seven states. Things of which I have first-hand knowledge. And -- oh God -- she looks into my eyes the whole time. Her pupils are large and liquid, her cheeks slightly, almost imperceptibly, flushed. She has **that** expression on her face, the one that says 'I want you **now** ,' and says it as clearly as if she'd actually spoken aloud.

And, God help me, I want her too.

By the time she's finished -- giving that quiet, satisfied sigh I know all too well -- keeping my breathing steady takes a conscious effort and my hands are clenched tightly together to stop them reaching for her.

I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

I am off balance, scrabbling for purchase on walls turned smooth and clear as glass. I feel literally sick with desire, my stomach lurching biliously even as I burn with need.

But I'm better than this. I have to be.

I bite the inside of my lip, using the pain to create a little place within myself, away from everything and everyone else.

Even here I can dimly sense her. But it's enough to allow me to think clearly.

Pain is my shield, pain is my sword.

Even Amanda never made me feel like this, but just the comparison, just the association with how much of a fool she played me for, is enough to give me another flare of anger, give me a little more room in here that is just me.

She takes another mouthful, wrapping lips sensuously, invitingly, around the fork, and it's enough to make my resolve tremble.

She meets my eyes and, despite the pain, despite the anger, I'm almost lost.

I know that she isn't doing this to hurt me. I can't expect her to realise how much this will humiliate me.

But: 'Please, Emma,' I silently beg her. 'I'm not the enemy here. I don't mind sacrificing myself if I have to, but not like this.'

And, as if she hears me, her gaze wavers, changes from seductive sensuality to... well, from anyone else it would still be sex turned up to 11. From her...

It's enough to break the spell, enough to stop me feeling almost painfully turned on, enough to allow me to have control over myself.

I taste relief over the acrid tang of copper in my mouth where I bit a little too hard.

Thank you. But this isn't going to be last you hear of this.

The corners of her eyes crinkle briefly, and then she turns her attention to the remains of her dessert.

Her next bite is demure, as is the next, and the one after that. Apparently the game is over.

Except I know her better than that.

I'm sure she'll honour our truce but, somehow, I don't think she's going to let my colleagues off the hook so easily.

  
With a small, satisfied sigh, Emma sets down her fork and sinks back in her chair, fanning herself with a napkin.

"Awfully warm in here, isn't it?" she murmurs. I think it's a rhetorical question, but then she turns to Morgan. "Don't you think so?" she purrs, leaning into him. I bet he has a great view from that angle.

"I, uh, yeah. I guess so." For some reason, he sounds a little distracted.

This should be fun.

"Darling, you've barely touched your sundae!" she exclaims, somehow managing to lean in even closer to him. "It looks sooooo good. I don't know how you managed to resist just... diving straight in."

Looks like he's certainly getting his just desserts now.

Before he can respond to that remark, she continues with: "Can I take your cherry?"

My eyebrows almost rocket upwards at that. A quick glance around the table tells me I'm not the only one.

"Excuse me?" Morgan says what we're all thinking.

"The cherry from your sundae." She points with one long, well-manicured finger.

"Oh. Uh, sure. Go ahead."

"Thank you, darling." She snags the piece of fruit and pops it into her mouth, stalk and all. "Mmm," she murmurs. "Juicy."

Self-control or not, my mouth is suddenly watering. Keeping my expression impassive, I watch with amusement as Morgan -- who is looking a little hot under the collar -- reaches for the water. That seems to be Emma's cue.

She half-turns away as he pours, discreetly extracting the stalk and pit from her mouth under cover of one hand. Waiting a beat for him to raise the glass to his lips, she faces him again, a brilliant smile on her face.

"You're right," she says, cheerfully. "Emily is a tough nut to crack. It looks like I'm going to have to concede this contest."

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he has a mouthful of water and can't reply right now. Not that she bothers waiting for a response.

With a little flourish, she offers up her hand, opening her fingers to reveal the remains of Morgan's cherry balanced neatly in the centre of her palm.

"Here is your prize."

She holds her hand out over the table, turning to make sure that we all get a good look.

The stalk is tied in a surprisingly neat little bow.

And still attached to the pit.

I'm left vigorously trying **not** to imagine her using that linguistic dexterity on me. Damn her.

Morgan, on the other hand, is left coughing and spluttering, having apparently tried to inhale that mouthful of water.

"Oh dear," Emma says, sounding unutterably smug. Depositing Morgan's prize in front of him, she slaps him firmly on the back. "Poor Morgan."

Yeah, poor Morgan.

He's staring at Emma like he doesn't know if he's coming or going; like she's completely and utterly discombobulated him.

In fact...

I glance around the table. They're **all** staring at her; some variety of shell-shocked expression on all of their faces.

Oh my god.

She discombobulated the whole damn lot of them.

I'm beginning to think I should seriously consider that mutant sex theory. I don't care how talented she is (and she is), that's just not natural.

And just when I think this can't get any worse, she turns her head and **smirks** at Garcia.

"You know, Penelope, I think Emily was right. You are **definitely** too innocent."

I am never going to live this evening down.

  
The rest of the dinner is more than a little awkward, stilted conversation frequently interrupted by painful bubbles of silence. Most of the team is in lockdown mode, like snails reflexively withdrawing into their shells. Certain people are gathering up the tattered remnants of their dignity, holding onto it tightly with both hands. People begin to make noises about calling it a night. In a surprisingly short amount of time, the bill has been paid and we're all going our separate ways.

Afterwards, Emma and I are walking the short distance to the taxi stand -- we could have simply called for a cab, but I want the fresh air. And for us not to have to hang around in the restaurant foyer with colleagues waiting for transport.

I think all of us are happier this way.

Emma seems content to walk in silence, clutching my arm again as her heels click-clack on the pavement. I'm trying to decide how to begin the conversation I want to have with her when she suddenly lets out a chuckle.

"Well, I don't think I'm going to be invited to another one of **those** in a hurry."

I look at her.

"Oh, is **that** what all that was about?" I enquire sardonically.

"Of course, darling," she smiles. "What else would it be?"

And the anger I coudn't really feel before comes crashing back in all its icy glory.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" I hiss.

Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth to say something but I interrupt.

"You humiliated me in front of my work colleagues, my friends, and for what? Why did you feel the need to do this?"

Even as I say the words, I know how unfair the question is. I know the region of the answer already, even if the specifics elude me. And I know that she won't give me a direct response, she can't, because that would be admitting a weakness, and Emma-fucking-Winthrop doesn't do that.

The question's unfair and I ask it anyway.

Her mouth moves silently for a moment, as though words are refusing to emerge from it. A point for me, and I know her backlash will be all the worse for it.

"I only came to this bloody meal because you begged me to."

"Really," I say, not a question at all. "I remember that you seemed remarkably open to the idea. Something about being able to find dirt on me."

"I lied." She laughs, and the sound is devoid of humour. "What on earth makes you think that I'd want to spend the evening around a bunch of..." She throws her hands up in the air, not bothering to finish the sentence, but I can fill in the last word for myself. Profilers.

It makes a remarkable amount of sense, and the analytical part of me kicks itself for not having realised how nervous she must have been before.

She really is extremely good at deception on occasion.

But that's not the part of me that controls my mouth at the moment. "And that gives you the right to, what? Make me your dancing monkey when you need a distraction?"

She looks at me, and, for a moment, I think there might almost be an apology in her eyes. Then it's gone and she says flatly, "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."

And I'm trapped. On the one hand, looking back on it, almost nothing about the evening surprises me. On the other, all my knowledge of Emma tells me she won't react well if I bring that up.

I'm still angry, but not angry enough any more to drive into that abyss.

So I do the only thing that I can do: I turn and walk away. "Find your own way back," I toss over one shoulder.

I need time to cool down. And time to plot my bloody vengeance on the other offenders of the clusterfuck of an evening.

  
Shortly after I get home, there's a buzz accompanying a text from Emma.

'I've reconsidered my policy on seducing you in public in the future. Unless you ask me very nicely.'

It's as near to an apology as I'm probably going to get. And, despite the traces of anger, it makes me laugh.

I take a breath and then release it.

Good enough, I guess.

'So I can seduce you, and you won't be able to do anything about it? Good to know.' I text back.

'Bitch' is the succinct response, and it makes me smile a little.

'I've learned from the best' I reply.

'I'll take that as a compliment. Maybe over coffee tomorrow? My treat.'

I finally relax as the anger leaves my body. Emma really is uncannily good at relaxing me. 'Who said I was talking about you? But I'll take a free coffee anyday. Usual time, usual place.'

There isn't a response, and I retire to bed.

The team may know more about me than I am really comfortable with, there's going to be a whole new tension in the air from tonight's little episode (not to mention JJ), but at least I'm back to peaceful relations with one oddly central part of my life.

As I drift off to sleep, I could swear that my face relaxes into a slight smile.  






	9. Stories through pictures

"Emily! There you are."

I resist the urge to duck at the sound of my name, forcing myself to smile at Garcia. I came in early specifically to try to avoid being collared at the coffee machine, but here she is. Loitering agitatedly. Loitering with intent, certainly. I start to ask what's up, but she doesn't even let me get the words out, seizing my arm in a two-handed death grip.

"I need to talk to you," she says in a low, urgent voice. "Let's go to my office."

Without further ado, she practically drags me in that direction. I eye the coffee machine forlornly, but make no protest. If Garcia is this riled up, whatever she wants to talk to me about privately must be all kinds of urgent.

She keeps hold of my arm until we're safely in her office with the door firmly closed behind us. Maybe she's afraid I'll make a bolt for it. She absently gestures me towards a chair, but doesn't wait for me to actually sit before launching straight into it.

"It's about Emma."

Okay. Interesting. I stay silent, letting her do this at her own pace.

"Just... How much do you know about her?"

Now I know where this is going. It looks like Garcia's been doing some digging.

"Why don't you tell me what you've found out?" I suggest.

"Okay." She nods. "That's probably easiest, I suppose."

She drops into her favourite chair, then changes her mind and gets up to pace the cluttered office. This is unusual behaviour for her. I wonder if I should be concerned.

"Alright, then. I'll start from the beginning."

"Generally the best way," I murmur softly. I pitch my tone for reassurance, but I'm not sure she even hears me. The first faint stirrings of concern start to uncoil within me.

"Her name isn't Emma Winthrop." Chewing her lip nervously, she peers at me from under her fringe, evidently trying to gauge my reaction to this revelation.

I briefly debate with myself whether to let her continue, or to put her out of her misery. In the end, it isn't a hard decision to make: I simply can't leave Garcia in distress.

"I know. It's Emma Frost."

She blinks owlishly at me. "You **know**? Frost International; all the rest of it? You know who she is?"

"Yes."

She stays frozen for a moment or two, then flops into her chair with a sigh that seems to start at her toes. "Oh, thank god! I was **not** looking forward to dropping that bombshell. I mean: how do you tell someone that their girlfriend is a telepath?"

Like that, apparently.

Now it's my turn to freeze.

"A telepath?" I ask through lips turned stiff and unresponsive.

"Yes, she's..." The sentence trails off as she registers my rigid posture, my undoubtedly stunned expression. "Wait, I thought you **knew**. You said you knew **all** of it."

"Apparently not quite all." My voice sounds faint to me, barely audible over the sudden thundering of my pulse.

Garcia's face blanches. "You... You did know that she's a mutant, didn't you?"

I give a jerky nod, my body feeling like a marionette in a child's clumsy hands. "Mutant, yes. Telepath, no."

At least now I know how she knew I was a profiler.

It's too much to process right now. I should feel violated, I should wonder if my thoughts have been my own, I should wonder what secrets I have left.

But I can't just now.

I compartmentalise on instinct, shoving the confusion, the fear to one side for the moment.

Cold hard logic is all that's left, and as long I can keep that lie running, I can continue to function.

And wishing that I was better at lying to myself is just **pointless**.

"What can you tell me about telepathy?"

The obvious question. If there's anything my love of fantasy and science fiction has told me, is that there are more flavours of mind witchery than of coffee in even the most exclusive cafe.

Garcia smiles, relieved at the lack of obvious freaking out. "I thought that you might ask that. I've compiled notes on telepathy, from a course run by one Ms. Frost. I've emailed them to you."

I raise an eyebrow. It's not that I don't appreciate the reading matter, but it might be a little difficult to explain if it's caught on my machine.

Garcia catches the look and beams at me. "Don't worry, sweetie. The goddess has hidden it using the awesome power of steganography." The smile turns a tad mischievious. "I've sent you some clip art to celebrate the dinner yesterday. And if you follow these simple steps using the image browser I've installed on your machine..." She takes me through the details of how to access the 'special' features of the program that's been on my machine seemingly forever. Somehow, it fails to surprise me that she's already made contingency plans to be able to send us deniable information at the drop of a hat.

"Thanks," I tell her sincerely after she finishes.

"Hey, I'm always here for you." She hesitates a second, then adds, "Does it change anything?"

Some of the panic I'm ruthlessly suppressing resurges, and I can't reply for a moment before I seal it away again. I summon up a smile from somewhere and say, "Answer unclear. Try again later."

Although she returns my smile, hers doesn't have quite the same luminosity as usual. There's something like sympathy in her eyes, and something else, as well. Something that tells me she still has more to say.

Please, no more revelations. Not now. Not today.

But I've never been one to hide from bad news, so I gird myself internally and say: "What is it?"

"It's just..." Garcia breaks off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. "At the dinner the other night. The bet she and Morgan had?"

"Yes?" I try to sound encouraging.

"What happened, the reaction he -- we all -- had; that wasn't..."

Normal, my mind supplies. Nothing I hadn't thought at the time, but given what we'd just been discussing...

Garcia takes another deep breath. "I think she was using her powers." The words come out all in a rush, like she just wants rid of them as soon as she can. I don't blame her. My mind is already skipping ahead, up the garden path of logic and right to the edge of the spiked pit marked 'consequences'.

"Aggravated assault," I murmur, softly. The legal category that 'using mutant powers on someone without their consent' falls under.

"It's a ridiculous law," Garcia says sharply, then the animation in her voice drains out. "But she should have been better than this," Garcia frets, mostly to herself. "She's an X-Man. She's a hero."

"They attacked her first," I say, feeling like I have to defend Emma, like I have to somehow salve the wounded look on Garcia's face. "They didn't mean to, but they did." And her reaction makes sense now, the situation even worse than I had previously thought. "They were profiling her." What would it be like to be pulled apart like that when you could **feel** them doing it to you?

Garcia gives me a look, as if she doesn't quite understand, but I shrug in response. There's really nothing more I can say. She still looks a little disappointed, but also relieved. Like she can still believe in heroes.

I'm glad one of us can.

"So, she didn't really mean any harm," she says, slowly. "She was just... taking defensive action?"

"Something like that."

"Then..." For a moment, conflict clouds her eyes, but then her expression clears, her next words more confident, her tone relieved. "Then I don't think it would do any good to tell anyone about what happened."

"I agree." I say, then smile briefly. "And it is a ridiculous law."

She smiles wanly at me, and I know we're in agreement.

It's a good thing, it is, but it leaves me with one less thing to occupy myself before I have to confront... the issue at hand. I give her a half wave and head back to my desk.

Time to catch up on some reading.

The file is interesting. I'm fairly sure that it doesn't contain the complete truth about Emma's abilities -- she strikes me  as far too wary to give a full account of her limitations and weaknesses -- but it has some valuable nuggets nonetheless. Surface thoughts can be picked up unintentionally even by skilled telepaths. Deeper thoughts, well, Emma seems to be of the opinion that a trained telepath should never pick those up without meaning to. I don't even have to know her to be able to tell that the ethics section saying that, of course, going deeper should never be used except in the most dire of emergencies, is a value that she doesn't exactly hold in high regard. It reads a little forced, to say the least.

Which leaves me with a dilemma that I try to sort through as logically as I can.

She could have seen all my memories. She could have seen all my secrets. She could have seen...

I want to wash my mind with steel wool.

I want to never see her again.

I want to scream at her. I want to know how she could have done this to me. I want to hide my head in her embrace and just forget the world.

And that's just perverse.

But all this panic **is not helping**.

I force it all back inside a box and try to think logically. Do I have any evidence that she's looked into my head at all?

She knew I was a profiler.

She knew I was a profiler on our **fourth** date. If I can trust my analysis of her, and I have to believe that I can, it was something new, something she had just guessed then and there.

I had just been profiling her over chess, hadn't I?

That would indicate surface thoughts, but not any deeper. And not even that all of the time, because it sure as hell hadn't been the first time I'd slipped into that mode around her.

Huh.

That does actually make me feel better. The fact that I habitually police those kind of thoughts for completely different reasons drives the internal screams a little further into their box.

She has at least enough respect for me to not pry into my mind casually.

And the fact that I had profiled her undercuts my moral outrage a little.

But how can I trust her? How can I know?

How can she trust me, if she knows about me? I'm fairly sure her need for privacy is at least as deep as mine, especially now.

I guess... I guess I can keep on locking the knowledge that she's a mutant and a telepath away in the box labelled Emma. And, if she does delve, I have to believe that she'd be curious enough to see what I think of her. And then she'd know. And then I'd know that she knew.

I think I could tell that.

I have to believe I can.

Because the alternative is leaving her, and I don't want to do that.

She still needs me, and I'm beginning to think that I really want her.

I give an internal bitter laugh.

Apparently enough to risk opening mnyself like this to someone, someone who doesn't even want to admit we're in a relationship.

She makes me want to take risks. She makes me want to believe that they'll pay off.

I delete the file Garcia sent me, and the images it was concealed in. If anyone checks, it's not suspicious at all. Garcia has managed to assemble the most godawful collection of childhood photos of me that I've ever seen, with cheesy congratulations messages attached. I swear she's managed to find more than anyone else I know ever has. Certainly more of them than my mother has.

Not that that would be **that** difficult.

I get up and make my way to her office. "Thanks for the trip down memory lane," I say sarcastically, but offer her a real smile.

"My pleasure, sweetie," she says, smiling a bit at me. Her hands flutter nervously, as if they're trying to ask a question she doesn't actually dare say out loud.

I offer her a thumbs up. "Don't worry, we're good," I tell her, hoping she gets the double meaning.

She relaxes instantly. "Oh, goodness. I was worried."

Message received.

But just in case anyone else is paying attention, I add, "Just so long as you delete those messages from your hard drive and promise never to find them again."

She just shrugs, widens her smile and says, "Sorry, no promises. Information wants to be free, you know?"

And, as if by magic, I see JJ out of one corner of my eye, moving around the office.

Oh. Great. **There** was some data I wouldn't mind seeing locked up for some time to come.

But, really, it's festered in the dark for too long already.

As if thinking of her is enough to draw her attention, she looks over in my direction. Our eyes meet; there's a spark of... something. She starts moving purposefully towards me.

Time to face the music.

  
"We need to talk."

Her tone is... warmer than I would have expected. She sounds calm, reassuring and in control, and I don't think it's just an act. I can't help but cringe a little inside.

"Hi, JJ. I guess we do." I don't know whether to be relieved or sorry that she's taken the initiative. Still, it has to be done. I make myself hold her gaze. Best to get this over with. "How about Guerrero's after work?"

She considers for a moment, weighing up the choice of location. The cafe isn't one of the team's usual haunts, but then, that's kind of the point. It's out of the way (and not on anyone's route home), but is relatively easy for both of us to get to after initially going our usual separate ways. Plus, it has off-street parking.

JJ nods. "I'll see you there." A ghost of a smile briefly hovers on her lips, dancing in her eyes like the flicker of a candleflame. "First one there can grab a table."

"Sure. See you later."

Dread and residual guilt roil in my gut, twisting my innards into a tangled snarl before I push it all aside. It remains to be seen whether I'll actually be able to eat or drink anything this evening.

"Later," she echoes, touching me lightly on the arm before continuing on her way.

Looks like it's a date.

  
The rest of the morning (mostly) passes in a blur of productivity as I lock away everything that isn't work and just get on with it. I can't help but notice that everyone else seems to be similarly focused; far, far too busy for chit chat. Or, for that matter, eye contact. Especially with me.

The next thing I know, it's lunchtime. Well, a little past lunchtime really, as my stomach is delighted to inform me. The canteen, or staying in the building at all for that matter, doesn't seem especially appealing. As the fresh air hits my face, as I leave the pall of the office behind me, at least for a bit, I know that I've made the right decision.

I need this.

A few minutes brisk walk and I feel sufficiently at not-work to phone Emma.

"Hello, darling," she drawls as she picks up the phone.

"Hi."

"So why do I have the pleasure of your telephonic presence? Not to seem ungrateful, but..." I don't phone her while I'm at work. Certainly not without good reason. And doing so is a little... uncomfortable, for want of a better word.

I silently bless her for knowing me well enough to cut straight to the point.

"I won't be able to make coffee this evening. Something's come up."

"Work?"

I almost reply in the affirmative, in the half truths that I use to cross the twilight between my worlds, but something stops me. "No," I reply honestly. "Some fallout from last night." I allow a sardonic note to enter my voice. "Though you may be quite shocked to learn that it isn't your fault in any way."

"I'm almost hurt that you're getting into trouble without me." She sighs. "Very well, dinner will be acceptable instead."

I almost ask when this went from being an apology from her to me to the other way around, but instead just say, a little wryly, "I'm glad I'm getting off so lightly."

"You're right," she says contemplatively. "I suppose some flowers wouldn't go amiss."

I roll my eyes at her a little. "Goodbye, Emma. I'll see you tonight."

"Goodbye, darling. Do have fun."

I give my phone (in lieu of the woman herself) a mock glare before putting it away, and continue in my search for food.

Spotting a local patisserie, I decide to indulge my imp of the perverse for once and, in addition to a sandwich (devoured en route), I return to the office with a modest bag of spoils clutched in one hand. Carefully arranging the items on a plate, I put them out in the coffee area with a note for everyone to just help themselves. It took some effort just to remember all the dessert choices from the di-nner-saster, not to mention actually getting hold of reasonable facsimiles, but I'm fairly pleased with the result. It should gently remind everyone that I haven't forgotten, or forgiven.

I spot Reid heading in that direction as I sit back down at my desk. Covertly keeping an eye on the target, I mentally count off the seconds until... Bingo. He turns to head out with his coffee and stops in his tracks, visibly doing a double-take as he catches sight of my gifts.

I expect an uncomfortable avoidance, but what I get is a slight flushing of the cheeks and a slightly glazed, unfocused look.

Oh. I'm not quite sure what response that was, but it wasn't exactly what I was expecting.

He breaks the spell after a moment, and scurries back to his desk, but I manage to get a closer look as he passes me. His cheeks are still a little red and his eyes are dark, dilated.

Ah. Apparently Emma's little stunt had more persistent effects than I was really expecting.

She wouldn't have done anything permanent, would she?

Probably not. I think.

I wish I could be more confident about that analysis.

I make a mental note to check again in a week or so, and if I still get this kind of response, I'm going to have words with her. Despite how I think she'll view the knowledge that I've been prying into her past.

In the meantime, however, I can't resist using this unexpected bounty.

One down, five more to go. Although... I debate with myself for a moment or two, then slip in and discreetly remove two of the desserts, stashing them in the back of the fridge. Emma may be an indiscriminate bitch, but I like to think I hold myself to higher standards. JJ and Garcia really had nothing to do with the whole mess.

Unlike Morgan.

Heh. This should work even better than I'd anticipated.

I take a detour past his desk.

"Morgan?" I say brightly.

"Yeah?"

"Catch." I throw the small object to him even as I speak and, as I predicted, he automatically obeys the instruction. He starts to say something -- some variant of 'what the hell?', most likely -- but then he looks down at his hand and physically recoils, the words dying unspoken.

My cue to leave him to it.

Much though part of me wants to savour the sight, I turn and stride away without a backwards glance. Job done.

I have to admit that my inner bitch, who has gotten **exceedingly** well fed since I've met Emma, is entirely too amused.

Not that that was a factor in my reasoning. In the slightest.

Garcia angles towards me, her expression curious as she looks from me to Morgan and back again. "What did you throw?" she asks quietly.

I can't help a small smirk.

"A cherry."

This should hopefully reinforce the lesson that friends, and specifcally Emma, are off limits regarding profiling. And, hey, I guess this means I'm back at the top of the Game's leaderboard again.  
   
Which is as it should be.


	10. Fruit of the Poisonous Tree

Soon enough, it's 'later'. I actually finish a little after the nominal quitting time, but so does JJ. So do most of the people here, for that matter. Apart from Hotch, of course. He tends to leave long after everyone else, and get in earlier. Sometimes, I wonder if he ever actually leaves this place at all.

I shake myself out of my reverie and gather my things together. JJ passes my desk as I'm shrugging into my coat.

"Goodnight," she says, pleasantly, just like we really are going our separate ways for the evening.

"See you," I reply. She gives that ghost smile again as she heads for the elevators. I take a few moments to respond to an e-mail that could easily wait until tomorrow, giving her a head start.

This is starting to feel uncomfortably like some kind of secret rendezvous. Which, I suppose, it technically is. Just not the illicit kind.

  
JJ's car is in the parking lot when I reach the cafe, but there's no sign of the driver. An unexpected traffic snarl meant my journey took longer than expected, so she's probably chosen our table already. Sure enough, I track her to a relatively secluded nook in the far corner of the room. Not the best seat in the house, but certainly one of the most private. That's probably a good thing.

"Emily." She greets me with a nod and an almost-smile.

"JJ." I slide into the seat opposite her, trying to work out how to play this. I'm way outside my comfort zone. I shouldn't be having a problem with this, but it's all too personal, and that always snarls the read. It's always easier when it involves other people.

"Do you know what you want to order?" she asks gently. I recognise the technique. She's trying to set me at my ease.

She's being so nice it hurts.

"Yes." I might not be able to stomach anything resembling food right now, but the comfort of a coffee wouldn't go amiss. Plus, it's useful camouflage.

"I'll call a waitress."

She manages to summon one in fairly short order, sending her off again with our orders (coffee for both of us, cake with ice cream for JJ). By silent, mutual agreement, we stick to work-related conversation until our sustenance is delivered and we  
are alone at the table once again.

Now comes the hard part.

"So." Once more, JJ is the one to take the lead.

"So," I echo, looking back at her.

She gives me a proper smile. **That** smile. The one I've seen her use so many times. To reassure someone, to comfort, to let them know that JJ is there for them, and she's going to do her best to make everything better. The one that wouldn't be nearly so effective if it wasn't for the fact that she means it. Like she does right now.

And I really don't deserve it.

"I know this must be very difficult," she says. "And I want you to know that I'm going to try and make this as easy as possible for you." There's a twitch, a slight flaw in her expression as she says, "I just want you to know that there are no hard feelings." The tell gives away that this isn't just that easy for her, that there's a cost, that's she's willing to pay it for me.

The whole thing just makes me feel that little bit more sick.

Especially because I've just realised where she's coming from, and I curse myself for not having seen it before.

No wonder she's being so nice.

She believes exactly what I wanted her to believe. And. It. All. Makes. Sense.

God. What should I do?

I could leave her believing my nice, pretty, clean little lies.

Or I could actually tell her the truth.

All my instincts tell me to just play along, to nod and maintain the fiction that has been an undercurrent in our relationship for all too long. It won't hurt anyone. We might even end up friends because of this. I came in here prepared to bare something of myself, to try and achieve some level of peace with the past. But surely the only thing the truth would do now is shit upon this olive branch I'm being offered, take our relationship back to bad old days.

Sometimes it seems like everything in my life is lies or half truths. Sometimes it surprises me that I hate politics so much,  given my predilection for deceit. Sometimes I feel like my mother's daughter in so many, many ways.

And something shifts inside of me, and I decide to go the less travelled route, and damn the consequences.

I'd like to think that my decision is motivated by the thought that JJ deserves the truth - and she does - but I really can't think that highly of myself at the moment. Despite all the excuses I have told myself over the years, I could have had this conversation at any time and I didn't. So, maybe it's the comparison to my mother. Maybe it's the self destructive part of myself that thinks I need to suffer. And maybe, just maybe, it's one lie too many for me at the moment, and I need to have **something** real in my life.

Despite the form that that 'something' is likely to take.

I take a breath and start picking away at the many seals that I've placed on the box marked 'JJ'. I almost gag on the black putrescence that leaks out.

"This whole thing hasn't been easy," I say. "But not for the reasons that you think."

I've buried these things so deep, so far away from work and anyone under that label, that I can't just say it. I have to work up to it. Even if it means I have to babble a little.

"I'm a private person. And this is far too much like bringing personal things into work. I don't do that."

A slight look of confusion enters her eyes, followed by a slow dawning realisation as her face starts to pale.

I'm on a clock now.

"I've always kept who I like well away from the office. Compartmentalised. And so the fact that I've always liked women has always been..."

I see white light and only then hear the impact of JJ's hand upon my face, rocking it back to one side. It's all too easy to just not react, to take this as part of my due.

I can see JJ's teeth. Not in a smile this time, but in something approaching a snarl.

"Don't you say irrelevant, Emily. Don't you **dare** say irrelevant."

"Sorry." The word bursts from my lips without conscious thought. An apology for then as much as an apology for now.

* * *

Another case closed. Another murderer caught. Another blow struck for truth, justice and the American way. Or something.

God, I was tired.

"Hey." JJ's voice dragged me out of my near-stupor.

I glanced up from my computer with a smile. "Hey yourself. What's up?"

She leaned casually, comfortably on the corner of my desk, bending towards me mock-conspiratorially.

"A bunch of us are going out for a drink after work. You want in?"

The word 'no' started to form on my lips, instinct almost driving me to speak before I stopped and made myself think about it. I **was** tired. And irritable. But it might be nice to wind down a little with people who understood before giving in to other pressures.

"Who's going?" I stalled for time as I thought about it.

"Garcia, Morgan, Reid, Rossi. Even Hotch, for a little while." Her teeth flashed in a smile. "Me."

The usual suspects. Hell, why not?

"Sure." I couldn't help but return her smile. That was JJ for you. Somehow, she always managed to make things seem that much brighter. Some people were just gifted like that. And the effort required to not consider any other explanation was by now routine, safe. "Come get me when you head out."

"I'll do that. See you in a little while." She touched my hand lightly, then headed back to her office.

I returned to my paperwork with a fresh burst of, well, not enthusiasm, but definitely motivation.

Suddenly, I didn't feel nearly so exhausted any more.

  
"Well, that's me done for the night." Garcia knocked back the remains of her drink and stood up, gathering her things. "What about you girls?"

It was down to just the three of us: myself, Garcia and JJ. Hotch beat feet after just one drink. Rossi went next, citing plans. A short while ago, Morgan headed off with some pretty young thing draped all over him. Reid called it a night not long after that.

I looked over at JJ and raised my eyebrows enquiringly. She gave a lopsided shrug and swirled the liquid in her mostly full glass. "I'm not done yet. Or done in. I think I'm gonna stay a little bit longer."

JJ's accent was a good indicator of her general state of inebriation. From the sounds of it, I judged that she was a little tipsy.

"I guess I'll keep you company, then." It was what friends did. And, upon further consideration, I really didn't need to be doing anything else tonight.

"Alright then kids, I'll see you tomorrow." Garcia beamed at both of us as she shrugged into her coat. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"And that's what, exactly?" JJ grinned back at her, eyes sparkling wickedly.

She drew herself up mock-indignantly, but the effect was kind of spoiled by the grin she couldn't quite suppress. "A lady doesn't tell."

I smirked at her. "So, no reason you couldn't share with us, then."

Garcia pouted, looking from JJ to me. "No fair ganging up on me."

"Who said anything about 'fair', honey?"

I didn't have to look at JJ to know that we were both grinning up at Garcia with identical mock-predatory expressions.

Garcia shook her head, settling her handbag strap securely on one shoulder and half-turning away with great dignity. "I am leaving. I came out tonight to have fun, not to be interrogated by my friends."

"Did you?" JJ wanted to know. "Have fun, I mean."

The grin lit up Garcia's face. "Yeah, I did. It was just what I needed."

"Good."

"Anyway, I really am going now. Goodnight, ladies."

"Good night, Garcia," JJ and I chorused together.

"And be careful heading home," I added.

"I will. You two take care as well, when you finally leave. If you ever leave! See you tomorrow!"

And then there were two.

  
JJ and I sat in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping our drinks and lost in our own thoughts. I glanced over to find her looking at me consideringly.

"What?"

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

I thought about it. "Yeah, I guess so. I wasn't sure about coming out at first, but I'm glad I did."

Apropos of nothing, she laughed like I'd said something funny. Maybe she was tipsier than I thought.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." She shook her head, still smiling.

My own lips twitched in response to her obvious amusement, quirking into a lopsided grin. "Agent Jennifer Jareau, I do believe that you are drunk as a skunk."

"Ha!" She leaned forward, jabbing an accusing finger in my direction. "Agent Emily Prentiss, you'd better not be saying I can't hold my liquor. Where I'm from, those are fighting words."

I pretended to think about it. "Well, you were giggling at nothing. And you're looking **awfully** flushed right now..."

She arched an eyebrow at me. "That's a dangerous road you're starting down," she said softly. "Don't you remember what happened the last time we had this conversation?"

I didn't even have to think about it. Some memories just stuck with you. I groaned aloud, pressing one hand to my forehead.

"I see that you haven't forgotten." I could practically feel the smugness radiating from a certain blonde's direction.

"I am **never** going to forget that hangover. No matter how much I'd like to." I shuddered theatrically, sending an accusing glare her way. "But I was doing fine until the tequila. Which, by the way, was **your** idea."

"Yep," she agreed cheerfully, not having the good grace to look even the tiniest bit guilty. "Unlike certain people, **I** could handle it."

"You didn't look like you were handling it too well in that briefing the next day," I shot back.

"The one with all the gunshot recordings? And the bright lights? And all those **lovely** pictures?"

"Yeah, that one."

JJ winced at the memory. "The room was stiflingly hot," she mused.

"The air conditioning was broken," I remembered. "And the room was too crowded. I think I drank a whole jug of water all by myself."

"And about a gallon and a half of coffee."

"Well, **someone** kept me up drinking until ridiculous o' clock in the morning!" Apparently, time had not diminished my indignation in the slightest. "And you're exaggerating about the quantity."

"Right," she smirked. "It was probably only a gallon. But you didn't **have** to stay out with me. You could have conceded at any time."

I shot her a Look. "Conceded? Do you even know me?"

And suddenly, she was pensive. "I like to think I do," she said softly. Before I could ask her what she meant, she leaned in close, placing one of her hands lightly over one of mine. I froze, caught between the instinct to flinch and the urge to press into her touch.

"Would you... like to continue this conversation at my place?"

Time seemed to stand still. Did she mean...? She couldn't...

But the invitation was clear in her voice.

And suddenly, I wasn't here, in this bar, in DC. I was somewhere else completely, speaking to a different woman, having another conversation.

Same agency, though. Same crossing of work and home.

I snatched my hand back, repossessing it, making it my own again.

"No," I say coldly, my temper flaring frigidly. "How can you touch me like that?" After all you did. "You disgust me." Never again. I wouldn't let you touch me like that ever again.

And I was back in the bar, looking at my blonde coworker who was staring at me with tears in her eyes, cradling her hand as if she'd burnt it. I should have felt regret, remorse; even just a vague sense of empathy.

But I couldn't. The only thing I could think of was survival, protecting myself, getting out of there. Making sure that it never happened again.

"Emily?" she said questioningly, asking for some clarity, reasons why I had acted the way I had.

All the barriers that she'd somehow slipped past activated, creating a steel wall around me, and I had nothing to give her. She was too close, too dangerous, and I needed to get her away. Now.

The obvious answer presented itself and I took it.

I forced an expression of disgust across my face. "I didn't realise that you were one of **those** kind of people."

She reacted like she'd been slapped.

The part of me not acting on instinct despised the rest of me that little bit more with every word. It despised that I was capable of doing this to a woman who had shown me nothing but kindness. It despised that it wasn't enough to stop me.

That part wanted to take her, to tell her how ridiculous my words were, how any half decent profiler would have had to be blind not to see that she was interested in women before, that this couldn't be my real reaction...

The rest, the rest knew that given time there was far too great a risk that she **would** see just that, that she'd begin to question my words, my actions, that her damned empathy might get her to reach out again...

And the next time she might succeed.

I liked her, trusted her too damned much. It was a weakness that had let people in before, had let people hurt me before, that I had sworn would never be exploited again.

There is a way of forging pain, shaping it, using it like razor on yourself to incalculate certain reactions.

Those reactions should have stopped me from getting this close before. They didn't. And now they reacted like a wounded tiger.

I couldn't leave it there.

I drained my glass, and put it precisely on the table in front of me, before looking her coldly in the eye. "I can keep this professional, despite this unfortunate incident." I allowed a note of doubt to enter my voice. "I do trust you can do the same?"

She nodded, jerkily, the seed of self doubt I'd just planted already taking root in the vulnerability exposed by her offer, and my reaction to it. If she was too busy doubting herself, she wouldn't think to doubt me.

I was such an utter shit. She deserved so much better.

But I couldn't expose myself like that again. I just couldn't.

A totally inadequate 'Sorry' I buried as deeply as I could.

"Goodnight, Agent Jareau," I said as I got to my feet and left her behind, arms wrapped around her chest, tears streaming down her face.

  
It turned out that I needed to go out on a hunt that evening after all. And after the mindless sex, washing as much of the evening away as it could, I cried. It was not quite the first time that had happened, nor the second, but that evening helped form the ritual that had become so much a part of my life.

* * *

For a moment, I think she's going to slap me again as her face pales once more, this time in anger. But a moment passes, and instead she speaks.

"How **dare** you say sorry to me, here, now! Maybe then... but **no**! You made me think you were a fucking **homophobe**! That you were so **disgusted** by me that you could barely even stand to be in the same room!" She takes a breath, then says in a more normal tone, "Do you have any idea how much that hurt?"

I wince internally, remembering the way I'd cut her with words, with glances.

With lies.

* * *  
JJ being JJ, of course she was never going to just give up on me, even if I was apparently an obnoxious bigot. After all, we were friends. She didn't abandon her friends. It was one of the things I admired about her.

  
The next day, a few words under cover of handing me a file: "Emily, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night. I think-"

I froze. I couldn't talk about this with her, couldn't talk rationally about what I had said. I just wasn't that kind of liar.

"This isn't the time or the place," I didn't have to fake the stiff, unnatural tone, but I did have to force myself to not even look at her. "Excuse me. I need to get back to work." I walked away, praying that she would get the message.

  
A couple of days later; an apparently chance meeting in the garage.

"Do you want to go for a coffee sometime after work? Just to talk, I mean." Her smile didn't reach her troubled eyes.

Oh god. What was I doing to her?

It would get easier. It had to.

I couldn't tell her that I wasn't like that, that I didn't hate her as much as, well, I hated myself right then. And certainly not for liking women. It would lead to questions, which would lead to answers, and I couldn't leave myself that vulnerable. Certainly not to someone I liked, someone who could hurt me.

So I had to keep on deceiving her.

All lies become easier with repetition, as people start to believe them, stop questioning them. They just become part of the background noise, part of the accepted hum of life.

I just had to wait until then.

It couldn't be much longer. Please.

I took a breath, and gave her a flat stare. "I don't think that would be a very good idea. Goodnight."

  
Some days after that.

"If you keep avoiding me, people will start to talk."

"I'm not avoiding you."

A lie, of course, although I was trying not to be too obvious about it. I didn't walk out of a room when she entered. I still said hello and goodbye; exchanged chitchat while waiting for the coffee machine. In public, I smiled at her almost as much as I ever had. Just... no more joint pastry runs. No more lunches hurriedly grabbed at the same time. No more... Just, no more. It was safer that way.

JJ didn't bother calling me on that particular pile of bullshit.

"Emily..." The word was spoken softly, but her voice was edged with frustration. "We're friends, aren't we? Friends can work through... misunderstandings. We can work through this if you just **talk** to me. Friends talk to each other."

My stomach twisted and surged. Friends. That's how it starts. That's how it started. Boundaries blur, walls crumble, and the next thing you know they're ripping your heart to shreds and telling you that's just the game. That it's not personal.

That you can still be **friends**.

Or more than friends.

I tasted bile at the back of my throat, bitter and acrid. It leaked into my words, turning my voice to poison.

"Friends don't force their vile attentions on people who trusted them. Friends don't pursue a subject that causes distress just to salve their own wounded ego. **Friends** " -- I paused briefly for emphasis -- "are able to take 'no' for an answer."

The words dropped like stones between us. JJ inhaled sharply, taking an involuntary step backwards.

"I wasn't... I didn't... I never meant..."

I drew myself up, looking at her as if she was something I'd scraped off my shoe.

"Don't you think you're being rather unprofessional right now?"

Someone else might have broken down in tears. JJ took a couple of deep breaths, pulled herself together and looked me directly in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for any distress I caused you. It really wasn't my intention. I won't bring this up again if you don't want me to." She smiled at me, then; a bland, empty, meaningless smile. It cut me to the quick.

"Goodbye, Emily."

"Goodbye, JJ."

And we went our separate ways.

* * *

"I'm sorry," I say again, helplessly.

I know I should go on, was intending to finish my explanation, but the words stick in my throat as she pins me with her gaze. The fury in her eyes is an inferno; a firestorm poised to sweep over me and sear me to ashes. And I would deserve it, I know. I brace myself for the expected onslaught, but she surprises me by holding back, banking the fires of her rage as she scrutinises me from head to toe. I feel like an ant caught beneath a magnifying glass, but I endure the discomfort without flinching or squirming, waiting to see how she will choose to respond.

"No," she says at last, quiet but determined. "Apologies aren't going to cut it, Emily. That ship sailed a **long** time ago. You owe me an explanation."

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. I don't even need to be a profiler to figure out **that** body language. This... isn't going to be easy.

"Okay." I place my hands flat on the table, fingers spread. Openness and contrition, whispers the part of my mind that never stops analysing. Another part of me just feels it; the guilt and sorrow. Grief for a friendship broken, possibly beyond repair. Hope that maybe it actually can be fixed; distress at the sheer improbability of that actually happening. But that isn't what this is about. This is about righting a wrong. It's about JJ, not me.

And it's about **her**.

I take a deep breath, and rip open the seals on a box I had vowed **never** to open again. My gorge rises as the bile contained within seeps out; black, rotten bile.

I should need a run up to this. I should need several drinks. But JJ's alwqys been able to get me to talk.

It's one of her gifts. It's one of my curses. It's why I had to push her away.

But, just now, I'm grateful for it. Neither one of us is in the mood for extended foreplay.

I open my mouth, and the words just slip out.

"I need to tell you about Amanda..."


	11. Synchronicity

Without intending to, I find myself dragging my feet as I make my way to the restaurant where I'm supposed to be meeting Emma for dinner. I want to see her, I do, but I just... I feel too raw to be out in public right now; to don my social mask and not do anything to stand out, to draw attention.

 

Like doing anything that might even touch the several internal boxes that I'm only just holding closed. Quite frankly at the moment it feels like that might include meeting someone's eyes or speaking.

 

The conversation with JJ... No. I just can't think about it right now. Drawing myself up, I square my shoulders and pick up the pace a little, turning my slow amble into a purposeful stride.

 

Time to put on my game face.

 

 

Emma, naturally, has already staked out her territory. She's established herself at one of the best tables in the house, where she lounges, glass of wine in hand, surveying the room and everyone in it as if they've been put there solely for her amusement. Her expression is a mixture of superiority and ennui, with just a dash of impatience. I should probably be thankful that she hasn't quite made it as far as 'irritably bored' yet.

 

She looks up as I approach, smiling with just enough of an edge to say: 'Your arrival pleases me, but you should have been here sooner.'

 

"Sorry I'm late," I offer. "Things took a little longer than I expected."

 

"Don't worry, darling," she drawls. "I'm sure you can make it up to me."

 

"I'm sure," I say dryly, doing the nearest thing to my usual slight smile that I can manage right now.

 

She starts to say something else, then stops, looks at me closely, then nods decisively. "I've decided. You can make it up by waiting on me hand and foot." She affects a slight smirk, but I can see the concern in her eyes. "In private."

 

Apparently I'm not doing as good a job hiding my state as I like to think I normally manage.

 

This should bother me.

 

Ordinarily, it would. But just now, the need to get away from all these eyes tracing across my skin like delicate brands is so much more preoccupying.

 

My smile widens a little in relief as I ask, "Your place or mine?"

 

"Mmmm..." she pretends to contemplate the remainder of her glass of wine a moment before draining it. "Yours, I think. So much better for you to serve me."

 

I think she means to be kind, to allow me to be on more familiar terrain, but as she says the words, I know I can't take her home tonight. Having her, anyone really, would just too personal, too private for how I'm feeling right now.

 

I wince a little as I reply, "Surely I could only do my apology justice in your place, not my humble abode."

 

She takes my rejection with nothing but a carefully schooled reaction for a moment, before nodding. "Granted, darling. Your apartment does have its limitations. Which does remind me - we really do need to do something about your decor."

 

I feel a laugh bubbling up from somewhere as I object with a mild, "Hey." She really does have the damnedest ways of helping me feel better, even if the difference feels far too slight at the moment.

 

She summons the waiter with an imperious glance, pays for the glass of wine already consumed and then takes me by the hand.

 

"Come on then," she says, giving me a gentle squeeze. "I do believe that you've got some serious grovelling to do."

 

 

I'm in bed that night before I can let myself go enough to dry sob a few times. No tears. I can't cry these days without my little rituals, and I wasn't in the mood for sex tonight.

 

I get the feeling Emma would have given me a Look if I had tried to muster the enthusiasm in any case. **She** still thinks that I need therapy.

 

No one has quite the zeal of a convert. And Emma does seem to believe in 'Do unto others.'

 

The sobs don't help - the pressure is still there - but I wasn't really expecting them to. It's enough for now. Emma has soothed my raw edges with our petty bickering.

 

The bitter irony strikes me suddenly. I've even compartmentalised the people I rely on. Celia is my succor. JJ is the person I can talk to, even if I **don't**.

 

Emma, Emma is the person I just seem to trust. The person I can let in.

 

I guess time will tell if she blurs these boundaries too.

 

In any case now I'm ready to sleep.

 

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. But, at the moment, I'm not sure I can believe that.

 

 

The next few days are hard. Much of the team is still ducking their heads after the dinner incident. And JJ and I are in a cold war. Or, more accurately, JJ is at war and I am in retreat.

 

JJ is a mistress of communication. Innocuous seeming comments. The way she might look at me for just a second. The silences when we might otherwise have said a word in passing.

 

Nothing unprofessional and individually, they'd mean nothing, even to me, their intended recipient. But accumulated...

 

But it's okay. We've been here before, even if then our positions were reversed.

 

It's almost familiar in its own way. And it's not like I don't deserve it.

 

I don't think that the rest of the team notice. JJ and I have always had a slightly off kilter dynamic.

 

This time, though, by unspoken agreement, we're keeping Garcia out of this. She patched us up last time. She doesn't deserve to get involved in my messes again.

 

It's better this time too, strangely enough. Despite how good JJ is at this, I'm **so** much better at hurting myself than she is. It's almost an artform, in its own twisted way. And I'm no longer carrying around the burden of that secret. The thing about compartmentalisation is that it doesn't make things disappear. You still have to deal with them one way or another.

 

Emma helps, too. Throughout all this, she provides me with a safe space, reminds me that there is something within me that people can find affection for.

 

And she'd be **awfully** offended if I forget the sex. Can't forget the sex.

 

Life is surprisingly not too bad.

 

 

'I'm in your apartment and I'm bored. Amuse me.

 

Emma.'

 

The invisible 'or else' is implied so strongly that it's a few seconds before I realise that it isn't actually there. I look at the time stamp and stifle a groan. Emma sent this two hours ago, but I've been so wrapped up in other things that I haven't been able to flicker into enough of a not-work mindset to check my personal email since I got in.

 

I try to convince myself that Emma would understand this. She really should by this point.

 

I have only limited success in that endeavour.

 

I fire off a quick email in response.

 

I don't get a reply.

 

Oh god. This really isn't good.

 

I hope I still have an apartment to get back to. My books. Won't anyone think of my books?

 

I've just about given up hope and am busy writing up an analysis when my cell phone goes. The text message sends a shiver down my spine.

 

'At Bean There with Celia. Am sufficiently amused. See you here after work.'

 

'Am sufficiently amused.' The most deadly words in **any** language. Especially when used by Emma.

 

And what is she doing with Celia? That bodes ill. And **there**? I couldn't believe Celia, at least, would agree to meet Emma there. Especially after their first (and, to my knowledge, last) meeting.

 

* * *

 

Watching Celia and Emma approach each other resembled nothing so much as a face off between two cats. I wasn't sure whether to be amused or to start running for cover.

 

This was starting well.

 

We weren't meeting at the Bean There. Despite the fact that I met both women there on at least a semi-regular basis, it wasn't neutral territory. Certainly not for Celia and -- I strongly suspected -- not for Emma.

 

It had become a place that Meant Things.

 

So, instead, here we were in a restaurant that Celia and Emma had managed to agree on, after a somewhat protracted battle over text and email. I had to stop my eyes rolling at the memory of **that** little dominance battle. I was fairly certain that many of the objections that each found in the other's choices were made purely so they wouldn't have to concede to the other. I was equally certain that, barring a minor miracle, choosing to meet one in one of the other's suggestions was probably not a good idea for the forseeable future.

 

I could, of course, have intervened to settle the matter much more quickly, but I was fairly certain that would have meant both women turning their focus on me.

 

I had no particular designs on being a chew toy of contention between them any time ever if I could manage it. Sadly, looking at them now, I didn't rate my chances of escaping that fate too highly.

 

"Celia, this is Emma. Emma, Celia," I offered up. The two women barely acknowledged me, sizing each other up. Still, Emma's grip on me, initiated shortly before we entered the restaurant, showed no signs of relenting in the slightest.

 

Oh so subtle, I thought sourly in her direction.

 

So there they stood, like two gunslingers sizing each other up, for a few minutes. Until there was a twitch -- who started it I wasn't entirely certain -- and then we were moving towards the table. From their body language, it was extremely hard to tell who had won that exchange. Both appeared to be proclaiming victory in their own way, but I **thought** that Emma had the edge. Maybe.

 

On the other hand, her grip on me still hadn't let up, and there was only so much of this that I was going to take.

 

I broke Emma's hold on me, ignored her offended look (which she was no doubt going to try to make me pay for later) and picked up to my pace so I arrived at the table first.

 

I knew enough about Celia and Emma to know exactly what would happen if I allowed them to get here first, and I was going to head that off right now.

 

I took one side and offered up the seats on the other with a bland smile. "I thought that you two could sit over there together and get to know each other a little better."

 

They both shot me offended looks, Emma's a tad more outraged, but there was no way I was going to let who I sat with be another point of contention. So the two of them could just live with it.

 

Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing, focussing their attention on me, but if they started, I'd show them this chew toy had teeth.

 

I always did have a lot lower threshold for this kind of thing in person rather than in text that I could easily ignore.

 

The two of them shot each other almost imperceptible looks, then sat down, each making sure to move their chairs away from each other just a bit.

 

Sigh. Children, children.

 

I was wise enough to keep **that** thought to myself.

 

"Well, Emma," Celia started with what was meant to be a smile. Of sorts. Celia's smiles can be very eloquent. "Emily has been telling me **all** about you."

 

I glowered at her. This really wasn't the kind of help I needed from my friends. Expected, but definitely not needed.

 

"Really?" Emma raised an eyebrow. "Because **you** seem to have slipped her mind completely."

 

"Oh, you know Emily, and how she keeps her most precious things secret," Celia smirked.

 

"How fascinating," Emma said looking bored. "And how novel."

 

Oh joy. This was looking like the kind of evening where I could be replaced by a decent mannequin, and no one would notice for at least a few hours.

 

Still, things could be worse. I could be seated next to Emma. Relationship or no, I was fairly certain that she wasn't above marking me with nails when it came down to pissing matches, and not even in a fun way.

 

I settled down to just watch the evening's entertainment. I briefly thought about keeping score, but, really, after this, both women were going to get told that they lost to the other.

 

Shortly before some extremely pointed conversations about etiquette. I was going to do my mother proud.

 

* * *

 

In some ways, the scene before me as I arrive at the coffee shop is eerily familiar. Both women are sitting on the same side of the table. In most ways, though, it's very different.

 

They're smiling at each other, more or less genuinely, as far as I can tell. Relaxed, chatting. And this time they're seated not so they can't make me choose a side as, very obviously, so they can both focus on me.

 

I pinch myself in the vague hope that this is all just a horrible nightmare.

 

It's not. It's all real. It's my worst fear come to life.

 

My best friend and my girlfriend are conspiring against me. And they're not even having the decency to be subtle about it.

 

Emma notices first as I near, and their conversation cuts off as they turn towards me and smile. Not in unison -- thankfully -- but equally terrifying in their own way. Emma's smile is the kind a large cat might us to greet a particularly juicy antelope whereas Celia's is just full of the pure evil I remember so well from our school days. I reflexively glance above me but, of course, these days she's not that easy to predict.

 

Oh great.

 

"Hey," I say tentatively, hesitating for a second before taking a seat at the table. I would consider fleeing, but, really, that would just give them more time to plot.

 

"Good afternoon," Celia says, then takes a sip of her coffee.

 

"We've resolved our differences," Emma observes blandly.

 

Okay, finishing each other's sentences like that is just a little creepy.

 

"And then we had **plenty** of time to concentrate on other things," Celia says, shooting me a look of cheerful malice.

 

Okay, they can really stop this now.

 

"It was **so** much more profitable that way," Emma continues, providing the straw that breaks the camel's back.

 

"Okay, just stop right there."

 

Shit. I didn't mean to use my outside voice,

 

Emma raises a perfect eyebrow. "Stop?"

 

"We've barely begun," smirks Celia.

 

"Seriously, you can stop anytime." I pause for a beat. "Like now." All in all, I think I preferred the pissing contest.

 

"But we're getting on well."

 

"So very well."

 

"Darling." Emma draws the word out, pouting a little; like I'm being unreasonable trying to stop their fun.

 

"Bonding over the things we have in common."

 

"Namely you."

 

And then they both **smile** at me. Together.

 

I just can't take it any more.

 

"Will you two just STOP DOING THAT!" I shriek a little louder than I really intend.

 

The coffee shop falls silent and I can feel everyone look in my direction. Great. Just great. I decide then and there that I hate the both of them.

 

Emma turns to look at Celia and says, "I really didn't believe you when you said that she would be that easy to crack."

 

Celia, of course, is looking insufferably smug as she holds out her hand. "Pay up."

 

Emma hands her fifty dollars. "Worth every cent."

 

"You **bet** on whether you could crack me?" I hiss.

 

They take a long look at each other, then back at me.

 

"No," Celia replies.

 

"We bet on **how long** it would take to crack you," Emma adds.

 

I can't help the shiver that runs through my body.

 

"See," Celia tells Emma. "It's like her kryptonite."

 

"I'll have to remember that," Emma says thoughtfully.

 

I glare at Celia. "Now would seem an excellent time to reminisce about library privileges."

 

A satisfying silence falls from that direction as I wipe the smile off Celia's face.

 

"Oh?" Emma raises an elegant eyebrow. "Do tell."

 

"And you," I say, glaring at her in turn. "I may not know the skeletons in your closet, but don't think that I won't have my revenge there either."

 

She flashes me a broad smile. "I can't bring myself to regret a second of it, darling."

 

Huh. We'll see about that.

 

"So, have you been doing anything else other than making a temporary alliance to pick on me?" I ask. As surreptitiously as I can, I slip my right shoe off with my left foot. For what I have planned, the extra flexibility and responsiveness will be useful.

 

 

"Well between that and the obligatory threats about what would happen if she hurt you from yours truly, we haven't had much time for anything else," Celia says, then smirks, "That we're willing to tell you about."

 

Great, Celia. Way to hang that sword of Damocles above my head. I wonder how much it would cost to get her drunk and ship her off to a different country for a few weeks without her passport. Hell, I know where I could probably get some contributions.

 

"Things you're not willing to talk about?" I turn towards Emma and give her a mock contemplative look. She makes a minute but very satisfying jump as I take the opportunity to brush her thigh with one toe. "That does remind me of a time Celia and I were in school."

 

Celia gives me a suspicious look. There really is far too much material we have on each other from those days. If she can share some of it with Emma, then it's only polite to do the same.

 

Emma's look darkens as I gently home in one of her sensitive areas on her upper thigh. Despite my best efforts, a small thrill shivers through me at her response.

 

"For reasons too long," and too personally embarrassing, "To relate, both Celia and I ended up working in the school library."

 

Celia's eyes hold dawning horror. Despite my threat earlier, she hadn't really thought that I'd go there.

 

I'm entirely unsurprised to feel Emma's foot returning the favour. I tap it firmly with one hand, then take it and sketch an uh-uh gesture on her skin whilst looking her in the eye with an eyebrow minutely raised.

 

 **Someone** , after all, promised not to do this to me in public. (Even though, right now this moment, a small part of me is tempted not to hold her to it.) From the look in her eyes, **someone** is also remembering that I made no such promise in return.

 

I don't let the foot escape, though. It could come in useful later.

 

"Celia generally worked the desk and I generally stacked books in the aisles."

 

I go back to gently tracing designs on Emma's thigh with one foot.

 

"But sometimes we swapped."

 

As I move my foot closer to the top, she spreads her legs a little. I'm not quite sure whether that's unconsciously or by design.

 

"After a while, we started swapping more and more."

 

It doesn't really matter. I can't help but take advantage.

 

I feel that shiver again; deeper this time. Lower. My heart beats a little faster, my breath quickens. I bring myself back under control again, at least on the surface. How does she do this to me without letting the teasing carry her away. Maybe I'll ask her one day. Maybe it just takes... practice.

 

So I'll practice.

 

"And one day, I discovered why."

 

Celia's hiding her face in one hand in an exaggerated fashion by now, but I can still see a hint of true crimson in her cheeks.

 

Emma's hands twitch a little, then fasten onto her mug as if to stop them reaching elsewhere. Her cheeks also contain a hint of crimson, but for a far different reason.

 

"I **had** noticed that one of the boys in our year - who I think was called Jack and was most definitely **not** her boyfriend at that time - had been visiting the library rather a lot recently."

 

I start in on Emma's foot. I've discovered that she has **awfully** sensitive toes.

 

Besides, it means that she'll be distracted from wondering where my foot will be travelling next.

 

"It turned out that books hadn't been the only thing that he'd been checking out. One afternoon I heard, well, noises coming from one of the less used areas of the library."

 

Right on cue Emma breathes out a little raggedly as I achieve contact, my own breath hissing through my teeth in response. Luckily, Celia seems too wrapped up in her own discomfort to notice.

 

"Innocently," I say and Celia snorts. I hadn't been exactly that even then. Nevertheless, "Innocently, I wandered along to find my best friend and confidante on her knees in front of Jack who had his trousers down around his ankles. Shocked to my core, I gasped."

 

This time, Emma doesn't provide a soundtrack as I gently increase the pressure on her panties, instead just biting her lip. The motion draws my gaze to her mouth; to those full, kissable lips. So soft, so inviting. So talented. I'm starting to wish we were alone, and somewhere private. Unfortunately, heading off to the bathroom together would be a little **too** blatant.

Well, maybe not for Emma.

 

But no. I'll just have to save it all up for later.

 

Anticipation crackles through me like electricity.

 

Celia just gives me a jaundiced look. It hadn't been a gasp at all - I'd laughed loudly at the shock on their faces as I'd discovered them.

 

"A little too loudly, perhaps, because the librarian seemed to just materialise from around a corner. I've never seen anyone manage to pull their trousers up quite as quickly as Jack did that day. And, needless to say, both of them had their library privileges revoked."

 

Celia peeks from between her fingers at that, shooting me a hopeful look in an attempt to dissuade me from finishing the tale.

 

I consider and finally relent. I give her a look which informs her that she had **better** make this up to me.

 

Celia sags in relief, then takes a glance Emma-wards for the first time since I had started... playing.

 

"Hey," she says accusingly, "You two are totally fooling around under the table,"

 

"No," I say, retrieving my foot and releasing Emma's. "I'm not." I take a sip of my coffee and smirk as Emma sags at the loss of pressure and shoots me a look of utter frustration. From not being able to reciprocate as much as not being allowed a release, if I read her correctly.

 

Good. I'd hate to think I'd misjudged that.

 

"You two!" Celia shakes her head in disgust. "Okay, Emily, I swear I'll never do the synch thing as long as you promise to never practically have sex in front of me again."

 

" **Someone's** gotten staid and boring in their old age," I note. "As well as gained an acute sense of hypocrisy."

 

"Yeah, well," Celia says. "Sadly, I can't do that kind of thing anymore. At least not where I might be caught."

 

The first rule of politics.

 

Emma clears her throat, and raises an eyebrow. "You two are far more boring than I thought if being caught having sex in a library is the height of scandal."

 

Celia and I look at each other and grin. "Boring," she says.

 

"That's us," I continue.

 

Like so many things in life, it isn't a bad thing when **I** do it.


	12. Freefalling

"You realise, of course," Emma says, matter-of-factly, as she casually hands me her coat to put away, "that I **will** have my revenge."

I don't bother asking what for. I briefly contemplate dropping her coat on the floor, but that would be petty and I try to leave **that** to Emma. So I just accept the garment and hang it on the peg next to mine.

"Of course," I reply, matching her tone. "For which I will, naturally, have to retaliate."

She raises an eyebrow at the challenge. "Really," she says, the word more an expression of doubt than a question as she fixes me with her brilliant blue eyes. An almost eager smile dances on her lips. "We both know I'm far better at this game than you are."

"Then I guess we'll see," I say, keeping my tone mild.

I turn away from Emma briefly to pull off my boots and stand them more or less neatly in the hallway. When I meet her gaze again, her smile sharpens.

"I will note," she says, sashaying over to me, "that we're not in public **now**." She moves in close enough so that our bodies almost -- but not quite -- touch, and then stops, looking deep into my eyes. I can feel her breath on my skin. Her voice drops to a low, husky whisper. "So that means I can do... **this**."

Oh.

Her mouth devours mine, the kiss setting my nerve endings ablaze. She strokes my tongue lightly with her own, nibbles at my lower lip; all the little touches that turn it from a kiss into a **kiss**. One of her hands is buried in my hair, the other gripping my rear, pulling me hard against her. When my knees start to tremble, she presses me up against the wall, stopping me from falling.

A sensation like vertigo passes over me at my girlfriend's touch, regardless.

Something strikes me as wrong about the thought, but I can't quite pin down what it is. Not with her on me like this.

So I pull back a little, signalling Emma to put her attentions on hold for a moment, ignoring the way my body aches at even the slightest lull in sensation. Our eyes meet, and I look beyond the quizzically arched eyebrow, beyond the heat in her eyes, to see... something dark and deep and dangerous. Dangerous to both of us. Her, with her secrets; me, with my walls. If we're not careful, the whole house of cards could come tumbling down around our ears, and yet...

And yet.

There it is.

I bury the question about what is wrong with this picture until later.

She smiles. Not an edged smile, not a hungry one. Just a smile.

"Don't tell me I've worn you out already," she teases.

My lips curve upwards in response. "Not in the least." I push myself off the wall, placing my hands on her shoulders and gently steering her down the hallway. She lets herself be moved, tilting her head to one side with a quizzical expression. I don't need to be a profiler to understand the question. "I just thought we could begin the evening where we're going to end up for once."

"You don't want the pleasure of the morning clothes hunt?" she pouts insincerely.

"Maybe I just don't want to risk that new vase." I point at the impossibly fragile, exquisitely tasteful, ornament. "The one you gave me."

"Oh, well, when you put it like that..." Brushing her lips against mine in the softest of kisses, she takes my hand and takes the lead.

Once in the bedroom, we face each other, our fingers still intertwined. I can't help but think of the first time I brought her here. I think... I think that was the first time we were ever truly intimate. And we didn't even make love; just spent the night in each other's arms. Of course, that was also the time we had our first proper argument. But I understand, now, why she reacted the way she did.

Without conscious thought, I bring her hand to my lips, kissing the soft, smooth skin.

"Thank you," I say, softly.

"What for?"

For opening up to me. For being my friend. For making me **feel** again, although that's something I also curse her for. So many possible answers, but my voice is trapped behind the lump in my throat and I can't say a word.

So I kiss her instead.

I'm in stockinged feet and she's still in heels. I have to tilt my head up a little, but it's not an unfamiliar angle. We fit together comfortably, easily, and although I think on some level I should be panicking right now, I just can't feel it. Instead all I can do is revel in how **right** this feels.

Emma's lips are soft, her mouth tasting faintly of spices as it opens against mine. The kiss is slow and deep and gentle. We sway together as we explore each other's mouths; lips and tongue and teeth speaking without words.

It seems only natural for me to lightly cup her cheek, for her to languidly twine one arm around my neck. Somehow, the space between us has dwindled, like a binary star system spiralling through a decaying orbit. Gravititational. Inexorable. Inevitable.

Only a matter of time until the inescapable explosion of light and energy.

Sudden shock of sensation: her breasts brushing against mine. My nipples tighten, nerve endings alive under electric skin. I shiver and gasp, feeling her smile against my mouth as she draws her nails across the back of my neck. Somewhere along the way, languor has become tension, timelessness dissolved by the heat of anticipation. I nibble at her lower lip, sliding my hand down from her face to rest lightly on the swell of one breast. She makes a small sound, deep in her throat, somewhere between a purr and a moan. My whole body tingles in response, and I find myself moving instinctively, releasing her hand and wrapping my fingers around the curve of her hip. Gripping her firmly, I pull her in close, pressing our lower bodies together. Her fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt, trailing gently over the skin of my back, my sides, my stomach. My own hands start to wander, one cupping her ass, the other (reluctantly) leaving the softness of her breast to work at the fastening of her skirt. Somehow, by the time I'm sliding the material down over fishnet-clad legs, the buttons of my shirt are mostly undone.

Emma makes a soft sound of complaint as I break the kiss to finish removing her skirt, only to hiss sharply as I touch my lips to her throat, her torso, her stomach. I leave a trail of kisses on her body as I disentangle the garment from first one leg, and then the other, nipping lightly with my teeth before I stand up again. I unbend slowly, skimming my fingers all the way up her long, lithe legs, pausing as I belatedly realise she's wearing stockings and suspenders. I can't help but linger a little over the exposed skin at the tops of her thighs.

"I take it you like the wrapping." Her voice is smug, if a little breathless.

"Very much," I murmur, starting to kiss and nibble my way back up to her mouth. She pounces on me as soon as I'm within reach, seizing my shirt even as she captures my mouth again with her own. For a moment, I'm sure I'm about to lose another item of clothing to our passion (and her impatience), but she actually takes the time to undo the last couple of buttons. Now it's my turn to make complaining noises as she takes half a step back from me, leaving me bereft of her kisses. I start to say something, to move towards her, but she stops me with a gesture, placing her finger on my lips.

"I want to look at you," she says, her voice husky and deep. Although I want nothing more than to continue this dance, I stay where I am, arrested by the utter **want** in her eyes. I've been wanted before -- by her as well as by others -- but this... this is something else. This is naked and raw and scary as all hell, and I never ever want it to stop. As her gaze roams my body with all the intensity of a touch, a slow shiver starts at the small of my back, a wave of goosebumps spreading over my skin.

"Cold?" she asks, brushing her fingertips over my collarbones.

"Not in the slightest," I reply, in a voice I barely recognise. When did my voice become so smoky with need?

"Well, then..." The words fade into nothingness, meaningless in the face of what our bodies are all-but screaming. Instead, we let our actions speak for us.

She slides my shirt down my arms, kissing my neck, my shoulders, my mouth. I don't see what she does with the garment. I don't care. As soon as my arms are free, I'm returning the favour, pulling her own top off over her head and going to work on the clasp of her bra. When her breasts are exposed, I pause there for a moment, drinking in the sight of her.

"You're beautiful," whisper, barely able to speak around the lump in my throat.

"So are you," she murmurs back, but I hardly even hear the words. I'm not sure which of us moves first, but we're suddenly kissing again, our arms around each other's bodies, our hands moving over each other's skin. She wraps one of her legs around me, moaning as I cup her ass again, making me gasp as she nibbles at my earlobe. My pulse thunders in my ears, my vision contracting until she is the whole of it; the whole of my world. Her gravity has pulled me here, to this moment, and now there's nothing I can do but fall.

I'm falling...

We're falling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and clothing. My bra is gone, my skirt and underwear nearly so. Impatiently, I kick myself free of the tangled material, caressing Emma's breasts with my hands and mouth as I slide my way down her body to remove the last of her clothing. The suspender belt presents an obstacle, enough that I start to consider just ripping the fishnets off.

Emma's breathy laughter distracts me from my task.

"What?" I huff.

"You're growling, darling," she trills.

"Am not." Almost there. I just need to get this hook untangled...

"Having trouble?"

"No." Okay, maybe she's right about the growling. I relent a little. "Maybe," I add, grudgingly.

"Want a hand?" She curls her upper body around me, does things to my back and neck with her nails that leave me gasping, taking advantage of my distraction to wriggle around as she does even more exquisite things to me. By the time I can focus again, the hook is undone, and she's looking at me with a completely unwarranted degree of smugness. "There you go."

"I had it," I mutter, wishing my voice didn't sound quite so sulky. Not to mention breathless.

"Of course you did, darling," she drawls, patting me lightly on the head.

I push myself up on one elbow, glowering at her. "You did **not** just do that."

"Do what?" She twirls one blonde lock around a finger; the very picture of innocence. Aside from the fact that she is sprawled out naked on my bed. And that after the patronising pat on the head, her other hand has gone a-wandering and is now playing with my torso. She lingers a while on my breasts, teasing long enough to bring a low moan from deep in my throat, my eyes drifting half-closed as there is an answering pulse from between my legs.

Belatedly, I recall that she asked me a question, and that being unable to answer will lose me points.

"You know what." There's a hitch in my voice despite my best efforts at maintaining the facade of control (old habits, etc). I open my eyes fully, letting my gaze drift along the expanse of her bared skin. I feel like a starving woman presented with a luscious feast, like everything I ever wanted is laid out before me, ripe and ready for the taking. I reach out and run my fingers over her body, cupping one of her breasts, squeezing lightly as I brush my thumb across the nipple. Now she's the one whose breath catches in her throat.

"Do I?" She leans in to breathe the words in my ear, letting her hand drift lower.

"Yes," I gasp, not sure if I'm answering her question or approving of her actions. But it doesn't matter. The game doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the here and now.

Emma and me.

Together.

I shift my weight, leaning over and capturing her mouth with mine, letting my weight press her into the bed.

"You're still wearing clothes," I murmur, when we come up for air.

She arches an eyebrow at me. "Well, whose fault is that?"

I smile down at her. "I suppose I'll have to do something about it, then."

Not waiting for a response, I kiss her again, then slowly make my way down her body, worshipping every inch of her smooth, pale skin with my hands and mouth. When I reach her hips, I kiss her navel as I gather up the garter belt and panties together, pulling them both down her legs and off in one smooth motion.

"I'm surprised you're letting me undress you," I can't help but observe. "You usually start getting... competitive around this point." Glancing up, I catch her propped up on her elbows, watching me.

"It seems only fair," she murmurs.

I snort. "I thought fairness was something that happened to other people."

She shrugs. "You're already naked." Something stirs in the depths of her crystalline gaze; something hungry, as she looks me up and down. "And I **am** rather enjoying this."

"Oh, well, then," I say, feeling my lips curve in a smile as predatory as her eyes. "I'd suppose I'd better make sure I do this properly."

Kneeling between her legs, I place one hand on each of her thighs, enjoying the way she twitches and gasps as my fingers come to rest lightly on the dampness between. Lingering there for only a brief moment -- too brief, judging by her disappointed sigh -- I crawl backwards, stroking my hands along the length of her long, long legs.

"Tease," she mutters.

"Yes," I agree. "I learned from the best. Have I got a passing grade, teacher?"

She gives me a Look, but forbears to comment.

When I reach the edge of the bed, I carefully step off and onto the floor, leaving my hands resting lightly on her ankles.

"Where do you think you're going?" she pouts, propping herself up on her elbows again.

I just can't help it. It has to be done.

I force my features into a frown, like I've just thought of something important. "I just remembered I have some laundry to do," I say, hitting just the right note of irritated regret. "Hold that thought, will you? I'll be right back."

The look of sheer bewildered outrage on Emma's face is certainly a sight to see.

"You!" she splutters. She's still spluttering when I grip her ankles tightly and pull her down the bed towards me; when I kneel between her legs and put my mouth where my fingers were a few moments ago.

And then she stops spluttering.

  
The taste and feel of her on my tongue. The way her legs quiver beneath my hands. The way her hands twist in the duvet. The way she writhes and moans as I tip her over the edge. The way her hair frames her face like a golden halo as she falls back on the bed, after. It's all so beautiful.

She's beautiful.

She takes my breath away.

  
As she lays there, panting, I take the opportunity to slip off her stilettos and stockings and pile them in the vague direction of a corner. She's still reclining on the pillows when I climb back onto the bed, although she's taken a moment to arrange herself artfully. I take a moment or two to admire the view before stretching out beside her. I'm just opening my mouth to make some pithy comment about having worn **her** out, when I'm suddenly flat on my back with Emma looking down at me.

"You were playing possum?" I splutter a little indignantly, but my protest is half-hearted at best. It's hard to muster much actual indignation while she's...

distracting...

me...

like...

 **this**.

I take a sharp gasp.

"You didn't really think **that** would tire me out, did you, darling?" A wicked glint in her eyes, she stretches out on top of me, covering my body with her own.

"I was hoping not," I say, arching my back a little at the feel of all that exquisite squirming. "I haven't finished with you yet."

She laughs delightedly. "Good to know. But it's my turn now."

I start to make some half-hearted protest -- more out of habit, really, than any spirit of competition -- but then she suits the action to the words, and I am lost.

There is no thought, only sensation.

Her mouth on my lips, my neck, my breasts. Her fingers everywhere, all over me, inside me. Exquisite friction. Always building, building, building. To the brink and back again and again and again until I'm almost ready to beg for release and then, finally, she tips me over.

Fireworks behind my eyes, muscles taut and quivering, my whole body throbbing.

Someone screaming, the sound raw and wild with pleasure.

Opening my eyes to see her looking at me. Just looking, but something in her expression almost makes me climax all over again.

  
I gulp air into my heaving chest, forcing speech through a suddenly hoarse throat.

"Wow."

Emma smiles. "It's so gratifying to be appreciated."

"You are," I say softly, feeling something tighten in my chest. My vision is blurred, suddenly, but I blink away the sweat that must have dripped into my eyes and reach out for her, snagging one of her hands and pulling weakly. "Come here."

She lets me pull her close, stretching out alongside me as I lean over to kiss her. A shock runs through me as her skin touches mine, and I find myself running my hand along the curve of her hip and thigh, easing one of my legs between hers.

"You can move again already?" she says, sounding more amused than put out. "I'll have to try harder next time."

I nuzzle her neck, nipping at the sensitive spot beneath her jaw so that she moans and writhes against me.

"Your turn now."

"Who says we have to take turns, darling?" Somehow, she manages to sound drily amused even while panting. And then we're caressing each other, letting our bodies do the talking.

Hands moving over sweat-slicked skin. Mouths kissing, biting, licking, tasting. Her body, lithe and supple. An instrument, a maestro. Responsive. Demanding.

A slow, still moment, lost in the depths of her eyes.

Kissing like it's our last time, like it's our first time, like it's forever. The feel of her mouth caressing my most sensitive parts even as I taste her pleasure on my tongue. Passion's fire, electric desire. Push and pull, give and take.

Bodies in motion. A dance as old as time.

Coming to rest together, a tangle of limbs so intertwined I can barely tell where I end and she begins. Wrapped around each other in blissful languor.

Bodies at rest. The warmth of contentment.

The still point.

The next best thing to perfection.

"I can't help but notice a distinct lack of tears," Emma remarks, as we lay next to each other afterwards.

I give her a Look. "It wasn't that kind of a night."

"Mmmm," she says, not exactly doubting, not exactly contemplative, not exactly something I can identify. "You've been having problems these last few days."

I tense. That's been something I've tried to keep away from us, to compartmentalise away from Emma. I've been aware that I perhaps haven't been as successful in that as I'd like, as I'd consider my normal standard, but up until now she's been polite enough not to mention it.

"It's been worse," is all I say in response.

She doesn't reply for a minute, just tracing tingling designs on my skin with one finger until I start to relax before speaking again. "You haven't handled the problem in your usual indomitable fashion."

I want to flinch away, to change the subject, to just get away from JJ and her ever accusing eyes. "It's not that kind of problem," I find myself saying instead.

Curse her hypnotic fingers.

"Oh?" she asks, continuing to write on my skin.

I don't reply, and just concentrate on her touch. Maybe if I can decode her writing, it will give me some further access to her thoughts, her secrets, the things she's been keeping from me.

No such luck, or at least if she is handing me such a key, I don't understand it.

I may understand the shape of her mind, but the engravings so far elude me. It's intriguing, fascinating and a little frustrating.

But it's also a project I'm willing to devote some time to.

"I believe that I was asking you a question," Emma says, poking me in the ribs with one long nailed finger.

I roll over, as much to look up at her as to escape her prodding, trapping her finger beneath me.

"Really?"

"Yes," she replies definitely. "You were telling me how this problem was different to your usual kind."

"I don't think I was."

"You do remember saying that I was going to get my revenge on you?" As if I could forget. "Well this is it. So, tell."

I am supremely unimpressed.

She shrugs. "You could either make this easy, or you can make this hard." She brings the index finger of her free hand up to her mouth in an almost contemplative fashion before scraping her teeth against it in a way that makes me shiver. "Personally, I'm hoping you'll make it hard."

I don't think she's **entirely** serious, and I'm fairly damn certain that if I really want to end this conversation here, she'll get nothing more out of me, but..

"I'm having problems with someone at work."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'd definitely not suggest getting rid of the tension with sex then."

I wince. That felt a little too close for comfort.

"So, I'm guessing the blonde."

I give her a twist of a smile. "I don't know. I think we're already established that I can deal with my blonde problems quite adequately using sex."

 **That's** rewarded with another poke from a finger that she managed to free somehow when I hadn't been paying attention.

"Does she not quite appreciate the sublimity of your choice in bed partner?"

I can't help but roll my eyes at her. "As hard as this may be for your ego to take, it didn't have anything directly to do with you."

She pouts a trifle insincerely. "I'll obviously have to try harder next time."

"I'm not letting you near anyone I work with ever again if I have anything to do with it."

"So, if it isn't to do with me, or at least not directly, what **is** it to do with? Forgive me for stating that the timing does seem a little suspect."

I sigh deeply. "You really know how to kill post coital bliss, don't you?"

"I wouldn't be asking about it if I didn't strongly suspect that you'd be stressing about it the next time we meet."

"Fine." And, as she strokes me calmingly with one elegant hand, I explain the whole sorry mess as concisely as I can.

  
By the end of my confession, I can't even look at her. What must she think of me? The silence stretches until I'm just about ready to scream. What is she thinking? I'm giving serious contemplation to just plain **asking** her, when she finally speaks.

"I do understand, you know."

I blink. I was not expecting those to be her first words after hearing what I had to say. "Understand what precisely?" My tone is even and conversational. No surprise there.

"How you can do things for what seem like good reasons at the time, but then they just snowball, and before you know, you're trapped, unable to move forwards, unable to move anywhere else without provoking a collapse, until..." she trails off.

"Until?"

"Until something shifts, and everything collapses around you anyway."

I pause, contemplating that for a moment. When she put it in those terms, the situation in general terms was hardly unprecedented for me. I had really hoped that I'd left those days behind me in high school though.

Maybe the only thing that had changed was my capacity for inflicting damage.

"Do you think there's any chance for forgiveness?" I ask.

I didn't deserve it, could never ask for it. But I couldn't help... hoping.

"Emotions can only remain so high for so long. Sooner or later, the wounds will heal over or at least scar. Sooner or later, there has to be forgiveness."

I ignore the less than certain tone of the last part. "Really? You think she'll forgive me?"

She gives me a sour smile. "I'm hardly the poster girl for not holding grudges far past the point of reason. So, no, I don't know whether or not she'll forgive you. But, sooner or later, maybe you'll be able to forgive yourself." She sighs, looking off into the distance for a second. "That's enough to hope for, isn't it?"

I honestly don't know. But it's certainly something to think about.

"I like to aim high." I take the hand in contact with me, and hold it between the two of mine. "Thank you." I feel better, somehow.

"Right," she announces. "That's quite enough of heavy subjects this evening."

"And now for something completely different?" I drawl.

She winces. "I don't know what that means," Lies. Complete lies. I can tell from her face. "But I can just sense the geekiness."

"Well," I say, "You **are** geek conversant."

"Thanks," she says.

"My pleasure."

And, just like that, she manages to ease the residual tension about the utter mess that I've made parts of my work life. At least for tonight.

Tomorrow is another day.

  
It's only later, when I'm laying in the darkness next to her, listening to her breathe, that I realise what's been gently bugging me the entire evening. Somehow, at some point, I've started thinking of her as my girlfriend.

That we're in a relationship.

That I have some claim on her beyond friendship.

It's the first time I've felt that away about **anyone** in years. Ever since... Amanda.

It should scare me. It should make me want to run for the hills.

It doesn't. It just feels right, like I've unlocked a great and subtle truth about myself.

This is not something I'm going to freak out about tomorrow.

It **fits** , and I can't deny it any longer.

I've fallen in love with her, and it feels **glorious**.


	13. Impact

There's a song running through my head. It's stuck on a loop; has been for the past few minutes. It's just there, in the background, getting on my nerves. Getting under my skin.

I don't even **like** Meatloaf.

Well, not anymore. But Celia and I have sworn each other to secrecy about that dark period in our pasts.

In any case, **this** song was never one of my favourites. Even when, especially when, it was kind of, sort of, my theme song. Metaphorically, if not musically.

My hunts may have been about many things, need and want amongst them, but love?

Love was never my strength.

Maybe that can still change.

Maybe.

The persistent, insistent refrain still ringing in my ears, I have to stop myself from raising my voice in an attempt to drown it out. I might be a little more manic than usual, but hopefully Emma will just chalk that up to the unleashing of my inner geek. I sneak a sidelong glance at her, catching her watching me with an amused expression. My heart skips a beat. The music rushes in as if to compensate.

"What?" I say to Emma, quirking an eyebrow in my best imitation of her trademark quizzical expression.

She shakes her head. "Oh, nothing," she murmurs, smiling. "Just listening to you."

I ignore any complexities to her expression. Maybe if I wish hard enough, they'll just disappear.

It's a futile hope, but it's the only one I have left.

With only the slightest of efforts, I return her smile. "Was I rambling?"

"Just a little. But you do it so cutely that I'm inclined to forgive you." She leans in and pats my hand. I grasp her fingers with my own and we walk side by side in silence for a few steps before she slips her hand out of my loose grip to fiddle with the belt of her coat.

"So, what did you think of the film?" I ask. I'm pretty sure she liked it, but since leaving the cinema she's been mostly letting me do all the talking.

"It was entertaining," she says lightly, "if a little unbelievable in places."

"It's a film about going into other people's dreams," I observe drily. "What were you expecting: a documentary?"

She starts to say something, then sighs and shakes her head. "Would it have killed them to stick a few electrodes and a brainwave monitor on the dream gizmo? Or to at least hint at the need for some degree of telepathic potential?"

I roll my eyes. "The mechanics of how it's done aren't important for the story. Any explanation they'd put in there would only have been a distraction."

"There's nothing wrong with adding a little touch of verisimilitude."

"There is if it confuses the narrative."

We bicker almost naturally as we stroll to my apartment, by which time she concedes that, minor quibbles aside, she did actually enjoy the film. So, I would like to think this outing could be counted a success.

I really would.

It's been nice. It is nice, talking like this. It almost feels comfortable, like before... Like before. My stomach flutters nervously as we approach my apartment building, but I allow myself to hope. We didn't really plan anything for after the movie, but maybe...

My heart lurches as she briefly glances towards her car, but then she turns to me and says: "Shall we go up?"

I smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

We take the elevator for once, rather than the stairs. Not our usual habit, but it was there and waiting. Serendipity. The short journey passes in silence. This isn't unusual for us; we've never felt the need to talk just to fill a space. But this is... different, somehow. Charged. Pregnant with words unspoken. Perhaps this means she's finally ready to say them. Whatever they are.

Or maybe it's just that damned refrain looping over and over in my mind.

I never thought I'd actually wish for muzak.

I close the apartment door behind us and turn to Emma. I'm intending to ask her if she wants to order take-away here tonight, but I stop, suddenly struck once more by how beautiful she is. By how much I love her; how much better my life is now that she's a part of it. Words well up in my throat, too many words, too long unsaid. And I just can't. They'd just be the wrong things to say.

That doesn't stop them choking me.

So, wordless, I kiss her instead.

* * *

The first sign that things were getting worse, not better, was Emma's eyes.

She was lounging across the sofa when I came in from the office, head propped up on one armrest and feet on the other, book clasped loosely in one hand.

She looked up. "Ah," she drawled. "There you are." She raised an empty glass in my direction, waggling it imperiously. "Just in time to get me a refill."

I rolled my eyes, but good naturedly took the glass and headed into the kitchen. I wasn't quite sure how, but her demanding ways had become part of her charm. I couldn't imagine her any other way.

While I was there, I grabbed a glass of my own before returning to the living room.

"Juice?" she said, looking highly displeased. "Really?"

"Maybe you should you have been more specific," I said, shrugging. "And it's too early for alcohol."

She snorted and muttered something I didn't bother to try and catch. It would only encourage her.

I leaned back into my chair and made myself comfortable. "So, how did your therapy session go today?"

If I hadn't been looking right at her right at that moment, I might have missed the slight shuttering of her eyes.

"Oh, you know, more of the same," she said. "Talking about my feelings. Blah, blah, blah."

I thought about enquiring further, about pushing the subject, but I didn't. This might have been a step backwards, but that was fine.

We had time. She'd tell me when she was ready.

We might have had more time, but she never did.

 

I might have been falling, but all I could see were clouds beneath me.

* * *

I want you.

We move together; two bodies, one rhythm. We may be slightly off kilter, out of synch, now, but I don't think we can ever forget the steps to this dance. Push and pull, give and take. She reads me and I can read her. Reflected and reflection.

I need you.

We can match each other almost perfectly. Almost everything I want, she can be. Almost everything I need, she can give me.

Almost.

Almost.

But maybe tonight, almost will be good enough. Again.

If I just ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head, this can feel so right, in a way things haven't been for what seems like so long. The two of us, together, like this.

I love you.

Maybe she'll stay the night.

Maybe we'll spend it in each others' arms and make love again in the morning.

Maybe I can ignore the fact that she's trying just a little too hard.

Maybe.

Don't you feel it, Emma? Don't you feel this?

Don't you want it back?

Don't you want it?

Don't you want me?

Don't you?

Don't...

Don't let me go.

Please, just don't let me go.

* * *

The second sign was a less subtle message that something was wrong.

A drowsy, satisfied smile upon my face, I luxuriated in the warmth of contentment. Languidly stretching, I rolled over to wrap my arms around Emma, but met only the softness of duvet, not skin. Confused, I raised my head in time to see her get to her feet.

"What is it?" I asked her. It was unusual for her to leave the bed right away after we'd made love. Not without -- well, not snuggling; Emma Winthrop didn't **snuggle** \-- without curling up together in a blissful tangle of limbs, kissing slowly and tenderly as the urge took us.

Even if the kisses hadn't been quite as slow or as tender recently.

It was just a phase. Every couple went through them. So I'd gathered from the tales of my friends and colleagues.

Maybe she needed the bathroom.

But she turned to me with opaque eyes and shrugged. "I rather thought I'd retire to my place tonight," she said.

Oh.

I tried not to read too much into that simple phrase. It would be so easy, too easy and my judgment would be clouded by my proximity to the subject. Instead I settle for asking merely, "Why?"

She tensed slightly, and I knew that I had said the wrong thing, pried behind her closely held barriers. I'd just, I'd just hoped that we'd already moved past that stage of things, to a point where we could ask these questions of each other.

Apparently not.

Or apparently not anymore.

"Even an international woman of mystery can have things she needs to do in the morning," she said with a false lightness.

Translation: She needed her space tonight, and wasn't willing to go through the reasons why with me at the moment.

She never had been as open after that afternoon.

It could still just be a phase.

It could.

"Maybe I'll be able to enjoy your company next time," I said, giving her an easy out.

To pry further would just make things worse.

She smiled at me, but it was her game smile, not the smile of a lover newly from the bed. "It's a date," she said.

But she didn't stay the next time either.

Or any of the times after that.

 

Those weren't clouds beneath me. It was an icy, rocky landscape instead. And I was accelerating downwards.

But there was still time to fly.

Please.

There was still hope that I could learn to fly.

* * *

A cry, a scream, a whisper, then finally my name on her lips.

Not quite an afterthought, but nearly, oh so nearly.

The way she shudders and trembles, clutching me to her body like she's never going to let me go.

Don't let me go.

Not as if she were getting ready to push me away.

Never that.

I clasp her to me with everything I have, hands, legs, even teeth.

"Tell me you want me," I breathe. A murmur, a plea, a demand.

"I want you," she says, letting lust cloud her eyes, almost covering the lie I can see reflected in their depths. "I... Ah!" she gasps as I bite her, harder, trying to drive the untruth out. "I **want** you, Emily."

She arches, but even her ecstasy can't drive the pain from my heart.

Kissing each other, over and over and over again, like broken promises. Maybe, if we have enough shards, we can make something whole.

Skin sliding on skin, bodies slick with empty desire. Tangled limbs and roaming hands, sliding past each other, always just missing.

Sometimes, almost is close enough.

Sometimes, it's an impassable divide.

But the music plays on regardless, carrying us with it whether we will it or no.

Every touch, every look, every gesture of mine says "Stay with me".

Every caress, every word, every movement of hers says "Goodbye".

And when I climax, we both pretend my tears are those of pleasure.

* * *

The third sign in some ways the most subtle, and in others the worst.

We were sitting around in my apartment after a night spent together.

It was always my apartment these days. What had once been a sign of the unparalleled trust I had for her was now something different, now just a further frail tether that I could wrap around her, a grasping of the straws.

If she was here, then she was in some ways inside of me.

If she was here, then she was still making a conscious effort to seek me out.

If she was here, then I didn't have to pretend so hard that I wasn't losing her.

Of course, if she was here, it made the conversations with hidden edges we'd been having recently that much more painful.

"Not that your decor isn't absolutely **delightful** ," Emma drawled. "But we have spent all together too many of our evenings within these four walls recently."

No.

Going back to just meeting in Emma's impersonal white apartment would hurt too much. It would be another step, which at this rate I'd never get back.

I couldn't do it.

Please.

"An evening out?" I deflected. "Where would you suggest?"

It was a compromise. Emma would suggest something she enjoyed and, hopefully, we'd get back into some sort of a routine.

Give and take. I knew how much Emma hated to owe anyone anything.

Emma pondered my peace offering for a moment. I could almost see her go through a list of options. Finally, "You're the local here. Why don't you come up with something?"

Put on the spot, I panicked a little. What could I think of that Emma would appreciate?

I needed time.

So I suggested something I was fairly sure that she wouldn't go for, a temporary reprieve so I could either palm the decision back on her, or research something better. "Well, there is a sci-fi movie that I've been wanting to watch. A heist movie about a group of dream thieves."

Emma rolled her eyes, and I could see her preparing a scathing response. And then...

And then she swallowed it with an effort. "Sounds like fun," she said quietly. "When do you want to go?"

Oh.

She didn't snark.

Emma.

Didn't make a single sarcastic response.

She didn't like to owe anyone anything, and the only reason I could think that she wouldn't reply with a barbed comment was...

If she didn't think that she'd be around to collect my payback.

That was the moment I knew that what we had was over.

 

It was too late. All I could do was close my eyes and brace for impact.

* * *

"Emily," she says softly from behind me as we lie sprawled out on the bed afterwards. My name sounds like a death knell on her lips.

Do you want to stay here tonight?" I interrupt. Maybe, somehow, I can deflect what she's about to say, avert it for another night. Change the ending, change the track.

God, I'm pathetic.

"I know you've needed some space recently," I continue, knowing it's futile but unable to stop myself from trying, from **hoping**. Because what we have, what we had, is worth fighting for.

But she isn't fighting.

"But, well, I thought..." I turn, finally, to look at her, and I see the resolve in her eyes. The last of my hope withers and dies, leaving behind nothing but salt and ashes.

"We need to talk," she says, and her words fill me with ice.

Now that the moment has come, I feel almost calm. The compartments of my mind rearrange themselves, transitioning her smoothly from lover to someone who is about to hurt me, and that, weirdly, is something I can almost deal with.

Almost.

"Go on," I say when she pauses.

She sits up, facing me properly. "I know I've been distant the last few days," she says, quietly, as if **that** could make it better. "I just wanted you to know that it's nothing to do with you."

It's nothing personal, I can hear **her** say, and, this time, she uses Emma's voice.

I taste bile. "It's not me, it's you?" I ask, and suddenly I feel fury. I welcome anger's fire. Maybe it can warm the part of me that's frozen over. The part that I let her thaw.

How **dare** she do this to me?

She winces, but not enough, never enough, because she's still going to continue.

To leave me. Again.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Weasel words. Evasions. I've seen it all before. Heard it all before. But not directed at me. Not after **her**.

"It's because of something that I just wasn't able to deal with before. Therapy has helped me come to terms with a number of my issues, and this one was buried deeper than most. Probably because I really didn't want to deal with it." She sighs softly, as if this is difficult for her. For **her**. "For a number of reasons."

Reasons, reasons. There are always reasons.

And somehow, somehow, her distress softens me, soothes me, takes away my anger.

Leaving just the pain.

Damn her.

"Why didn't you tell me about it?" Why didn't you let me help you? Why didn't you trust me? "I could have helped you..."

She holds up a hand commandingly and my mouth closes with a snap. "Because you couldn't, not with this." There's a look in her eyes, a look of almost shame, a look that promises something worse than merely: 'I'm sorry, I don't love you.'

'...never gonna love you,' the song mocks.

But she's still speaking.

"Before I left the school rather abruptly, I was already in a relationship."

Oh.

Oh god.

Even as part of me is slotting that piece of the puzzle in place, noting how much now becomes clear, the rest of me is reeling.

I feel sick.

How could she-

"I had a boyfriend."

The sentence stops me dead.

For a moment, I can't even breathe. Somehow, this makes it even worse. I'm not even being left for another woman.

All I can do is ask, "And this never came up before because...?"

Her words wash over me, but I don't really listen. I can't. This has been nothing, nothing but lies, and I fell for it. Despite the warnings, despite her point blank refusals on the subject of relationships, despite everything.

And I can't help but think in some small part of myself that I deserve it. JJ, Mona...

Amanda.

The thought ignites defensive anger. I've got to get more distance between us.

"So this is why you'd never commit to a relationship with me? Because as long as you didn't, you still had **him**?"

"I love him. I can't just let it go, not like that."

Of course she can't. But she has no problem letting go of **me**.

"So you run off to D.C., find me," Make me love you, " **Use** me to help yourself and now, what? Run back to your nice, normal boyfriend?"

"I need to go back to him, to find out where I stand. What our relationship is."

I note she has no problem using the word where I'm not concerned.

"So what was tonight, then? A pity fuck? One last ride for good luck before you slithered on back to your boyfriend?" I laugh, bitterly. "Doesn't it count as **cheating** if it's a woman you're fucking?" I've heard of that happening, but I never thought... I never thought that Emma would do that to **me**.

I'm such a fool. Some profiler I am.

She doesn't want me. She doesn't need me. She sure as hell doesn't **love** me.

Two out of three, the song drones on, but I don't even have that.

I have nothing.

I have nothing left.

"That's not... I didn't think..."

Of course she didn't. Why would she? Why would anyone?

"Go then," I say, curling up in a ball, instinctively trying to shield myself, to make myself less vulnerable. Invulnerable.

It doesn't work.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly as she leaves.

It's too much.

It's too little, too late.

"Don't say you're sorry when you don't mean it," I yell at her back. But the passion is spent almost as soon as it erupts. "Just don't," I murmur to myself.

I can't see how any of this can be unintentional.

As I hear the door to my apartment close, the anger exits with her. I'm left with a burning cold inside of me, and unshed tears which stubbornly refuse to fall, denying me even that comfort.

After all, it's nothing personal.

 

It isn't the fall that kills you.

It's the stop at the end.


End file.
